Therapeutic
by Leaper
Summary: In the wake of season 3, Dave and his therapist discuss the people in his life. Inspired by "Barista Confessions" by TheFirstMrsHummel, but not strictly necessary to this story.
1. Kurt

**AN: This was inspired by a bit (that doesn't even include Dave in person!) in TheFirstMrsHummel's story "Barista Confessions," mainly because I like to assume that Kurt helped Dave off-screen in S3, and I'd never written anything that assumes the contrary. I thought I'd take a shot at doing so.**

**I don't think you need to read "Barista Confessions" to understand this (although I'm sure TheFirstMrsHummel would much appreciate it, especially if you like Kurt and Sebastian together), but it would give you some more context.  
**

"And how does that make you feel?"

Dave sometimes wondered if Dr. Taylor took actual sadistic pleasure in using psychiatric cliches so unironically. He'd actually asked her once about it. She replied that she asked what she wanted to ask, what she thought would help her patient, cliche be damned. It helped that it actually sounded like she wanted a response, and would listen to it, rather than letting the question sound rote or automatic. She even managed to say "tell me about your mother" in a tone that didn't make Dave laugh.

"I dunno... I mean, it's Kurt, so it has to be complicated, right? On one hand, I'm pissed. He promised he'd help me through... things, and then he just, like, drops me, like I never existed. Then he just e-mails me out of the blue, in the middle of summer, and wants to talk? Like he's giving me some kinda consolation prize? On the other hand... It's not like we were best friends even before. And I know from personal experience how crazy that glee club is. Being around Rachel Berry alone makes enough drama to drown a killer whale. And I saw on his Facebook how he didn't get into that school he wanted to get into, so I understand how life just kinda slipped away with him..."

"You follow him on Facebook." Dr. Taylor grinned a little; it was a statement, not a question.

Dave flushed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Like I said, it's complicated."

Dr. Taylor scribbled something on her notepad. Five months of therapy, and he still had that juvenile urge to see what she was writing about him. "You seem eager to defend him."

"It's not that. I just... I don't know what I expected from him, or should have expected from him, with everything I did to him the last couple of years. Hell, if I were him, I wouldn't even have come to visit me at the hospital. I hate blaming him for this, like I somehow expected him to take me by the hand and personally drag me back to sanity."

"Sometimes we blame others when we should be blaming ourselves. Sometimes we blame ourselves when we should be blaming others. And sometimes... we assign blame when what we should be doing is moving forward."

Dave nodded. "I know. I mean, that's why I started bullying him in the first place: because I blamed him for 'making' me feel the way I did. I'm like the last person on Earth who should be judging him."

Dr. Taylor tapped her pen on her pad. "Here comes a hard question."

Dave's stomach clenched, but he nodded. "Fire away, doc."

"Do you still love him?"

A hard question indeed. Dave licked his lips nervously before starting to answer. "I guess. I dunno. Maybe I never did. I mean, if I really loved him, I wouldn't have assumed he'd broken up with his boyfriend and put him on the spot the way I did, would I?"

"Maybe not. But love isn't a rational emotion. Everyone knows that."

Dave laughed. "You fucking said it."

When he'd first started seeing Dr. Taylor, he bit back a lot of expletives. But she quickly stopped him from doing so. Once you start censoring yourself for language, she said, you start censoring all sorts of things, because you're constantly thinking ahead about what you want to say, and avoiding more than just curse words. "I'd rather listen to a few four letter words than not get the full picture of what you're feeling and thinking. So say 'shit' all you want, if it's what you'd normally say. I'm not going to shatter."

"I asked," the present day Dr. Taylor continued, "because you seem to want to absolve Kurt of any blame for not following up on his promise."

"That's not what..."

"As you said, he had reasons. But reasons aren't excuses, and vice versa. I'm not saying he's a bad person, or that he doesn't care what happens to you. But at the same time, in my personal opinion, he made a mistake in not at least trying to contact you before now. And you have every right to be angry at him."

Dave shook his head. "No, I don't. Not after what I..."

"David." Uh oh, there it was; _that_ tone of voice. The firm, no nonsense, "you are going to listen to me whether you want to or not" tone. "We've been over this. I know you're internalizing what we've been discussing, but I'm not going to let you backslide. You did some terrible things. We both know that, and you acknowledge that. But as much as you should work to keep yourself from doing such things again, you also can't hide behind those events as an excuse not to move forward. I'm not saying to forget what you did, but wallowing in guilt isn't going to do you any good either, except to keep making you doubt your worth as a human being." She exhaled a long breath. "This is why I'm going to suggest that you don't talk or meet with Kurt. At least not right now."

Dave blinked. He wasn't quite as startled as he felt like he should've been at the suggestion; he wasn't sure why. "Why's that?"

"To put it in its most basic fashion: as you said, things between you and him are complicated, and frankly, I think you need simplicity right now. You've been making some terrific progress these past few months, but these kinds of results are fragile. They need some time to take hold. I'm afraid that seeing him right now will..."

"Make me backslide?" Dave interrupted with a humorless grin. "Make me go all psycho again?"

Dr. Taylor shook her head. "I know you're joking, but I also know you're just serious enough that I'm going to answer your question seriously. No, I don't think that'll happen, and I don't think you were ever 'psycho' - at least, not in the way you mean. But at the same time, you can't deny the two of you have a history, and that you don't really know how you feel about him. I think you need a stronger foundation before you walk back into a situation like that. And given what you've told me, I believe it could do just as much harm to him as it does to you."

Dave was still turning the words over in his head when he got home. He still wasn't sure what he thought about it. What danger was there in just talking?

Then he tried to picture their meeting: what would he say? What _could_ he say? Well, he could tell Kurt that it wasn't a big deal that they hadn't spoken...

But... it _was_. At least a little. And Dave realized in that moment that he had no idea how he could say that, or if he even had the right to.

That was also the moment he made up his mind. He still wasn't sure that Dr. Taylor was right (and God, did he want to see Kurt), but he'd had enough of not being honest. Someday, hopefully soon, he'd be on a more even keel, and be able to have a talk with Kurt without fear, without lies. But it was pretty clear that time wasn't now. Besides, if there was the tiniest possibility that he could somehow hurt Kurt by seeing him now... He couldn't take that chance. He'd also had enough of hurting others for no good reason.

Dave picked up his phone and turned it over in his hand. The voice mail message was still there (and there it would remain, for many many days after, for no reason - or perhaps too many), but... He shook his head. He put down the phone, opened up Gmail, and began to write.

_Kurt: I got your voice mail. Thanks for giving me a call. But I'm afraid I've got something I need to say..._


	2. Dad

**AN: So I got more ideas, and decided to continue this. Simple as that. These are meant to be short snapshots of people and events, so if the process shown isn't as through as one might like... Well, that's life (literally).  
**

**In case you're wondering, all info about Dave's past and family not from canon is imported from another story of mine, "A Life, Lived in Pieces." I'm egotistical that way (plus, it was partly an attempt to explain stuff in canon like the non-mention of Dave's mom). Check it out if you're curious about how I saw things.**

"Dad is..." Dave sighed, trying to keep a slight grin off his face. "Dad is... okay. I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, it's... he's been great about the whole gay thing, but it's starting to get a little... smothering."

"Given the circumstances, you can't say you don't understand."

"No, no, I do. It's just that... I'm eighteen. I don't need my dad with me every moment of every day, asking me how I am and offering to talk or do whatever with me, no matter how tired he is. I guess it's nice, in a way, especially when I get to eat what I want almost every night for dinner, but it's just getting kind of tiresome."

"He almost lost you," Dr. Taylor said quietly. "And at an age where he'd probably be losing you anyway, to the demands of the adult world. He's trying to make the most of the time he has."

"And I get that. Really. But... it's like he feels guilty. And he doesn't have any reason to."

Dr. Taylor leaned forward in her chair, as if in interest. "You told me the two of you have discussed that before."

"Kind of. We don't really talk about it... not directly, anyway. But things slip out sometimes. I think he thinks that he should've said something before, whenever my mom said something about gays. Or that he should've tried harder to find out why I was so... angry last year. Or interrogated my brother about what he knew..." Dave shook his head. "I'm pretty sure he keeps coming up with 'maybes' and ways he 'should've' done something different... But he didn't, and now he's trying to make up for _all_ of it all at once..." He looked up at Dr. Taylor wryly. "Did I tell you he's going full on into the whole 'gay pride by proxy' thing?"

Dr. Taylor smirked. "Oh really?"

"Yeah. He's been going out with Kurt's dad lately and practically interrogating him, from what I can tell. He's also been going to PFLAG meetings and coming home with rainbow flags and 'Proud of My Gay Son' t-shirts... He even wants to drag me to a Pride event..."

"A real Debbie Novotny, eh?"

"Who?"

"Never mind. But it sounds like your father's educating himself... That can't be all bad." Dave snorted. "What?"

"Nothing. I just remember Kurt telling me that I needed to 'be educated.'"

Dr. Taylor smiled. "He had the right idea, in a sense. Your father's realized he made a mistake in the past, and now he's working to correct it." She cocked her head. "He just hasn't yet gotten over his guilt, and is still letting it run away with him."

"Like father, like son, huh?" Dave was a little _too_ proud of himself for picking that up; it wasn't like Dr. Taylor was being subtle or anything. But maybe it was a sign he was learning something - at the least how to read his therapist.

"Maybe a little. But enough so that maybe you should have a little patience with him. And with yourself."

"Yeah, yeah, I get that. It's just that... everyone seems to think _they_ made me try to hang myself. Kurt, Sebastian, Dad, Mom, Jack... Why won't any of them let me take a little responsibility?"

"It seems to me you already have. And more."

"But that's what makes it shitty. They think they're making me feel better, but they're not. It just makes me feel worse, listening to them rip themselves apart for something I did..."

"It's a fine balance," Dr. Taylor replied. "Acknowledging responsibility for one's own actions, but also acknowledging that a lot of what you are and what you do comes from your upbringing and from the influence of others."

"Are you saying they're right?"

"I'm saying that they're not as wrong as you think they are. And that that fact doesn't make any of them bad people, any more than your own responsibility makes you an inherently bad person." She paused. "Not that you would think that, of course."

There was silence.

"No, of course not," Dave finally said in a shaky voice. It wasn't that he still thought that... at least not as much. But sometimes, just sometimes, when his guard was down and his mind was wandering, trying to figure out when his life went all to hell, he thought... well...

"But we'll return to this later," Dr. Taylor said in a tone that cast her seemingly casual statement as more of a sacred oath. "But back to your father..."

"Like I said, it's annoying, but I do understand," Dave replied instantly, his shoulders relaxing in relief. "I just wish he wasn't doing so much for my sake."

"He's your father. Parents tend to do that. There's not much I wouldn't do for my daughter. Especially if I thought I'd failed her. Even..." she said firmly, stalling the words right out of Dave's open mouth, "if I were wrong about failing her. Come on, I thought all kids knew that it was our God-given right as parents to overreact."

Dave roared, a full-fledged belly laugh. It wasn't even that funny, but it was like a pin pricking a balloon - something had to give. "You got a point there."

"Then I hope you two will talk about this. Directly, I mean. It's pretty clear from what you've told me these past few weeks that what happened is still haunting him as well as you. I think you need to clear the air."

Dave considered this for a moment. He'd rebuffed all of his father's apologies in the days after the... incident. He'd thought (or maybe just hoped) that this was enough, but now that he thought about it, it clearly wasn't. He was avoiding the subject because it made him uncomfortable, and he wanted it to go away. Well, if there was one thing he'd learned in therapy, it was that things like this just did not go away all on its own.

"And if I could make one last request, as a fellow parent... go easy on him, will you? I don't know exactly what he's thinking and going through, but I can tell he's trying. And so are you, so at least you two have that much in common."

And maybe that was the point, Dave thought as he returned home and sunk into the living room couch: Dad realizing that there was a whole other side to his younger son that he had no clue existed. And that lack of clue led him to make certain decisions he wasn't proud of. Part of that was Dave, of course, hiding. But then, as Dr. Taylor said, there was the issue of _why_ he felt that he had to do so. That was a whole other can of worms that had only been partially opened.

"David?" The door slammed; Dave straightened as his father's voice rang into the living room. "You home?"

"In the living room!"

Paul Karofsky appeared in the next moment, his coat draped over his right forearm. "Hey, son. How was the session with Dr. Taylor?"

Dave shrugged. "Okay."

Paul nodded. "Good. You can tell me about it over dinner. Can you get the spaghetti started? I need to finish that editorial about Chick-Fil-A if I'm going to get it into next Tuesday's paper..."

"Dad?"

His dad stopped cold. It was only recently that Dave noticed that he only had to say that one word to make his father drop everything he was doing. He wasn't sure how to feel about that either. "Yes, David?"

Dave swallowed. The words were simple, but saying them, directly, for the first time... He'd thought he hadn't needed to say them before, but now... "Y-you know... you know it's not your fault, don't you?"

Paul Karofsky seemed to shrivel before Dave's very eyes. With a heavy, drawn face, he dropped into his favorite chair. "It is..." he whispered, so hoarsely that Dave almost didn't hear. "Every day I learn something new about... gay people... and what they go through... and every day I'm more ashamed I never did anything..."

"Dad..." Dave wanted him to stop; God, he wanted him to just _stop_ and be his stolid, unflappable Dad again. But Paul Karofsky didn't stop.

"There's so much I could've done and said and... I failed you as a parent, David. I shouldn't have let you feel so alone. I should've... your mother..." His voice stuttered; he had to audibly swallow to go on, and even then his eyes were brimming with tears. "I'm so sorry, I didn't ever want you to feel like you had to... to..." The tears were flowing freely now; Dave wondered just how long he'd been holding onto all that, how long he'd wanted to say something close to that, but was too ashamed to.

"It wasn't you..."

"It was. I may not have said anything, but that was the problem. Every moment I stayed silent and let your mother..." He rubbed his face with one hand. "God, I can't even find it in myself to blame her either, not even after all this. It's the way she was raised, her damn parents..." Paul Karofsky took a moment of silence to recollect himself. "I should've been doing what was right from the very beginning, not started just because I found out it happened to impact my family. But I am so proud that you're finally being who you really are, and I want to be part of that, instead of fighting it."

Dave shook his head; he was too choked, in throat and in mind, to be able to say much more than: "What can I do to make you feel better, Dad?"

Paul let out a stuttering sigh. "Do you forgive me, son?"

"Dad, there's nothing to for-"

"You asked what would make me feel better. And this is it: an honest answer to my question. Do you forgive me?"

Dave closed his eyes for a moment, searching inward for any answer other than the one he was about to give. He couldn't find any. "Of course I do."

He shouldn't have been so surprised when his dad enveloped him in a tight hug, but he was - at least, a little startled. His father wasn't cold by any means, but he wasn't the most physically demonstrative person. Dave returned the hug, just letting himself be relieved that his dad believed him. "Just... let yourself," Dr. Taylor had once told him.

"Let myself do what?"

Dr. Taylor had shrugged. "Whatever. Whenever. See how it works for you."

Dave hadn't understood what she meant then, but he thought he was beginning to.

"I love you, David," his father choked out. "Just... just never forget that, okay?"

"I love you too, Dad."

"You're still going to Pride, though. You need to see you're not alone."

Dave couldn't help but grin. "Yessir."

It took a few minutes for the two to separate. Aside from a few drying streaks of moisture, his father's face was back to its normal unflappable nature, much to Dave's relief. "Good. Now get that spaghetti going; I have an editorial to write." Paul Karofsky disappeared from the room, but Dave could still feel him, feel his emotion, even after the sight of him was gone.


	3. Santana

"Why didn't she help me?" Dave asked in a hoarse whisper.

Dr. Taylor didn't answer. Her pen just scratched against her notepad.

"Fuck, I know I'm being stupid," he continued, rubbing his forehead. "I always knew who and what she was, even before. I feel like an idiot for expecting..." He fell silent.

"Expecting what?" Dr. Taylor prompted.

Dave heaved a heavy sigh. "Expecting her to be human, I guess."

"We're all human. The truly inhuman are actually a lot rarer than TV and movies tell you. From what you've told me of her, Santana isn't one of them."

"I know. It's like with Kurt, I guess. I shouldn't have expected her to solve all my problems for me..."

"She doesn't sound like the 'fixing' kind of person," Dr. Taylor observed with a wry grin.

Dave laughed. "You're right. But that's the thing, y'know... I was _always_ looking for someone else to solve my problems for me. I mean, what else could I have been expecting from her? I knew we weren't friends. We haven't even spoken for over a year, since she broke up with me after our junior prom. She definitely didn't think of me as anything but a tool... in both ways you could take that," he added with a thoughtful look. "I guess... I guess I thought she'd understand."

"Because she is also gay?"

"Yeah." Dr. Taylor had assured him that she was bound by confidentiality the same as a full bore psychiatrist, but as far as Dave knew, the cat was out of the bag anyway. From what he gathered from Santana's Facebook page (and yes, he read that too, occasionally... just to see how she was doing, he'd told Dr. Taylor), she was being a lot more open about it anyway... almost defiantly so. But then, that's one of the things about her that Dave couldn't help but admire. "Maybe that's the only thing we have in common. She's so... She's not afraid. She's in your face. Not like me."

Dr. Taylor nodded a little, her lips pursed in satisfaction. Dave knew it was because he hadn't used the word "coward," a word that he'd spoken quite a bit during his initial sessions with her, and one that she was very quick and very aggressive about quashing. "Still, your struggles seem to have quite a bit in common."

"That's the thing, I think. Like I said, I at least thought she'd understand, you know? Maybe she couldn't fix me..." _I wonder if anyone can, at least completely..._ But he knew better than to voice that thought; he had a feeling Dr. Taylor knew what he was thinking anyway, which was a frightening concept in of itself. "... but I at least thought we could... I dunno, talk. Commiserate. Hell, maybe even support each other? What a fucking wild concept, huh?"

"Maybe she did understand. And maybe that was the problem."

Dave frowned. "I don't get you."

Dr. Taylor played with her glasses. While Dave was pretty certain by now that he was 100% gay, he could still tell that his therapist was a reasonably attractive woman. She had to be at least 40, but her skin was free of blemish and wrinkle, her body slim but not unhealthily thin, her face angular but not severe. Still, he could also tell she went to some trouble to downplay her looks: she wore little makeup, her blonde hair was tied back in a loose knot, and her clothes were conservative and professional. He supposed that it helped her establish a rapport with patients without worrying about them being distracted checking her out.

"I'm not Santana's therapist, so I'm only making guesses here based on what you've told me, but it comes down to this: usually the worst person to help someone who's broken is someone else who's broken in the same way."

Dave shifted in his plush chair. "So I'm broken now?" He wasn't sure why he asked.

"Now? No. Then? Well, you know what you did and thought. You tell me." She paused for a moment to allow him to rebut. When she was met with only silence, she continued. "My speculation is that Santana understood what you were going through all too well. She saw her own wounds reflected in someone else, and she didn't like it. It only served to emphasize the hard decisions she had to make in her own life - decisions she ultimately didn't make herself, but were unexpectedly made for her by someone else. Sound familiar?"

Dave nodded. His throat was dry.

"So in a sense," Dr. Taylor went on, "her knowing so intimately what you were going through made her _less_ likely to offer any help. How could she, when she couldn't even solve her own similar problems, and watching your experiences and sorrows only served to remind her of her own perceived cowardice?"

Dave stirred. "'Perceived'?"

"You and Santana are teenagers, Dave. Despite what you may think, you're not expected to have life figured out by now. People like Kurt are well-meaning, but they can only draw from their own beliefs, personality, and experiences, like the rest of us. You know best what you yourself can handle. Coming out in high school isn't some kind of duty, nor is it the end of the world if you can't."

He wasn't sure why (there was a lot he wasn't sure of these days), but somehow, the words penetrated his brain, his soul, in a way they never had before. It reminded him of that time when he and his family visited a beach (in Michigan? He couldn't remember) when he was four, and a wave that felt and looked huge to his young eyes crashed into him. He felt for a moment like he couldn't breathe.

Dr. Taylor saw this, of course. "Relax, Dave. Breathe. Remember the techniques we went over."

Dave nodded, closing his eyes, concentrating on his lungs, on the air going in and out, in and out... The hardest part was always clearing his mind. His kind of brain was used to running a mile a minute, constantly distracted and analyzing and worrying. Being in the closet only made it worse, of course, from the constant raised guard.

Now that he was out (well, not so much "out" as dragged out of the closet kicking and screaming), it was remarkable how much easier daily existence inside his head became. It almost - _almost - _made the whole horrible experience at Thurston worthwhile.

Finally, he felt himself calming, returning to control. He opened his eyes and nodded.

"Very good, Dave." From her, those words _actually_ felt like progress, rather than just some empty compliment. "Like I said, you've made a lot of headway. You've really put in the work, and you should be proud of yourself."

Dave flushed. "Thanks."

"I mean every word. But back to Santana... You said you'd tried to contact her after she was outed, but she didn't respond?" Dave nodded. "I believe that was the same thing. She doesn't sound like she can take pity, least of all from someone who truly understood how deeply she was hurting."

"But I wasn't going to pity..."

"Maybe not, but she couldn't know that, and she wouldn't take that risk, if my assumptions are true."

"Yeah, I suppose. But I still feel like we could've... been there for each other, I guess. If she cared."

"I think she cared, perhaps more than she was prepared to."

Dave frowned. "What makes you say that?"

Dr. Taylor put her glasses back on. "You told me about how she blackmailed you."

"Right."

"So why did she come out to you when she first approached you?"

Dave would kick himself later for not asking himself that question before. As it was, all he could do was stare open-mouthed like a fish. "Huh?" _Oh, bravo. __Real intelligent, Dave_. There it was, that inner sarcastic voice, always ready to cut him down and mock his every effort. Sometimes it sounded a lot like Kurt. Still, he'd been hearing less of it, and Kurt in it, lately. That was undeniably a good thing.

"I mean, she could have told you any halfway plausible lie about why she was doing what she was doing, and you probably would've believed her. She could've said she wanted to cement her popularity at school. She could've said she wanted to win her glee club competition. She could've said she wanted to show up her rivals for prom queen. In fact, she could've given you no reason at all, and her reputation and your already-formed opinion of her as a cold bitch would've entirely satisfied any curiosity you may have felt.

"But she came out to you. Why do you suppose she did that?"

Dave could only shrug. "I... I don't know. Maybe it was just impulse...?"

"I think you're right there. I think it was an impulse: one born out of loneliness, out of a desperate need to reach out to the only person she knew who she thought would understand what she was feeling. Kurt, as you've said, had always been 'out' in a sense. Her girlfriend... what was her name...?"

"Brittany."

"Right. Brittany doesn't sound like the type to be very self-reflective. Santana's feelings for her would probably also affect what she'd discuss with her. But you... You were safe. The two of you had an adversarial relationship before, so she didn't have to worry about disappointing you. She had power over you, so she knew you wouldn't talk. But at the same time, she wanted to feel a connection to someone over her plight, to not feel like she was alone in her struggles. For someone like her to show that kind of vulnerability, to give that kind of potential hold to someone else... I think that indicates a lot of things: unhappiness, desperation, even trust..."

"Trust? Funny way to show it."

"Old habits are hard to break, especially for someone who seems as guarded as her."

Dave grinned. "I thought I was getting the therapy here, not her."

Dr. Taylor shrugged. "A lot of who we are is defined by how we approach, and interact with, others. Besides, as you said, the two of you are a lot alike. I want you to think about that - about how knowing that, and what you think of Santana, affects what you know about yourself."

Dave did think about it, a lot. He thought about it the entire drive home (in fact, when he pulled into the driveway, he realized that he couldn't recall a single detail of the entire trip, which made him nervous by providing evidence of a half hour distracted drive). He thought about it as he let himself into the house. He thought about it when he should've been working on his summer courses.

He'd already thought a little about the similarities between him and Santana, of course. Looking objectively at her bitchy and frankly bullying ways just drove home how harmful his own actions had been. But at the same time, he'd always thought of her as it applied to _him_, almost never about her as an individual. The more he did so, the more it felt like he understood them both. Funny how that worked out.

In fact, he knew _that thought_ would never have occurred to him the way he approached Santana before.

But when it did... Dave leaped to his feet at once and nearly sprinted up the stairs to his room. He went to a box and pulled out a small white card. It had come with a bouquet of roses that was delivered to his room late in his enforced stay at the hospital. It was unsigned, with a short, simple message written in a blocky handwriting he didn't recognize:

_Don't ever_ [this word was underlined three times] _even think about doing this again. You are better than them. Never let them break__ you.  
_

Dave had spent a lot of time in the days following his return home (not that he had a lot to do anyway, not at first) trying to figure out who had sent this. He'd assumed that it was someone from Thurston, someone who also knew the "them" who had contributed to his hospitalization.

But Dr. Taylor had made him think. What if the writer was more thinking of their own "them": an eavesdropping fellow student, a politician with an agenda, a grandmother who chose reputation over her own flesh and blood?

Nah. That was ridiculous. Santana didn't have that kind of empathy. She simply didn't care about anyone except herself and Brittany. That was neither good or bad; it was just the way she was.

But...

Maybe...?

**AN: Yes, this was quick turnaround, but mostly because I had this half-written already as one of my initial continuation ideas. The rest will probably be (a little?) slower in coming. Depends on how I do with "Worlds Colliding" and any other ideas I pursue. I've learned by now between this and "Dark Knight Moves" that I can never tell when something will just blow up. I sure didn't expect this chapter's analysis to go as long as it did.  
**

**Speaking of the future, here's a preview of all expected upcoming chapter titles (you'll notice somewhat of a pattern):  
**

**4: Jack  
5: Sebastian  
6: Azimio  
7: Mom  
8: Dave  
**


	4. Jack

**AN: This one sort of ran away from me; I didn't expect it to be this long. Not sure how it turned out, but just staring at it even more than I already have won't make much more of a difference.  
**

**I have limited patience for OCs a lot of the time, so having this chapter focus on one is kind of unusual for me. Jack was born out of necessity. I needed a character to play a certain role in my other story "A Life, Lived in Pieces," but no one in canon fit the bill. So I created Jack, explained (fortunately, I found a plot-relevant manner) why he hadn't been mentioned in canon, and wrote him up. To my surprise, he went over well with my reviewers.  
**

**So he returns here, in a sense.**

"You haven't talked a lot about your brother," Dr. Taylor remarked.

"Oh?" Dave struggled to remember what he'd said before, but enough time had passed and enough sessions had been attended that he couldn't really remember.

"Yes. The only reasons I even know about him are your father and your own passing mentions when you're not being careful. He's visiting you _right now_, yet you didn't so much as mention that; I had to learn that from your father too. As family, he's an important part of your life, but we've never really discussed him." Dr. Taylor grinned in a way Dave almost thought was _evil_. "Therapists _love_ secrets, David. They tell us _so_ much about the people who possess them. I hope you're ready to delve into this one."

Dave shrugged. "I guess."

Dr. Taylor smirked. "Your reticence right now speaks volumes."

"Yeah, well, I dunno how much there is to say about him. He's my older brother, and so is obviously a huge asshole. He looks almost nothing like me; he's more like my mom: tall and wiry. He ran away to California for college, so he's mostly been out of my life for years. That's about it."

"I don't believe that's true, David."

"What, you saying you know my life better than me?" The tone was mostly joking, but there was still that thread, that undercurrent, even after all these months...

"Hardly. But there are certain aspects of it that I believe I can look at more objectively than you." Dr. Taylor looked at him earnestly. "Please bear with me on this. The good I can do is directly proportional to the willingness of my patients to be honest and forthcoming with me. Even if you don't think he's relevant to you or your life right now, I think you've already told me that he actually is, deep down."

"Oh, yeah? How?"

"Well, you said that he 'ran away' to California for college."

Dave blinked. "I did?"

Dr. Taylor nodded. "'Ran away'... That's very powerful, loaded language. Why did you use it?"

"Dunno."

"Now you're sounding like 'first session David.' Now I know we're on to something good." She actually, literally, _rubbed her hands in anticipation_. Dave swallowed. "Your father told me that you two used to be very close."

Dave shrugged. "Yeah, well, he's five years older than me, so it was typical big brother/little brother stuff. He'd give me wet willies, take my video games, threaten to swirlie me..."

"That kind of thing only lasts so long. What about later?"

"Later...? I suppose. I mean, we gave each other shit all the time - we still do, actually. That's just the way we are. But we did talk some. Or at least he did."

"About what?"

"I don't remember. Stupid shit."

"Your father said you and he would talk all the time when he was in California... Until fall of your sophomore year, when you two stopped. Or rather, you did."

Dave squirmed in his seat, as if he were being stared down by a judge before the passing of the life sentence. "I guess."

Dr. Taylor's mien turned serious. "Fall of your sophomore year. That's a significant time in your life, isn't it?"

"You know it is," Dave snorted. "We've talked about it enough."

"A time like that isn't easy to get over, David."

"Yeah, I'll bet Kurt thinks the same thing."

Dr. Taylor frowned. She cocked her head, staring at him for just a brief moment, before continuing. "Let's try another angle," she said, much to Dave's surprise. "I get the sense from your father that your brother and mother didn't... get along."

Dave laughed. "Fuck, no. Jack's a hippie liberal, and you know what she's like. There's a reason why my family stopped talking about anything but school and weekend plans at dinner for years."

"That's interesting. Why do you think he turned out that way?"

"I don't know for sure, but I think it's because he's an atheist. Once he went down that road, I guess the rest of it just followed."

"Rebellion against your mother?"

Dave shook his head. "I barely remember this myself, but Dad told me once that Jack got pushed around when he was a kid because of church. He was asking questions about God - you know, basic stuff, like why there's evil and why He sends sinners to Hell forever when He's all about redemption. Some of the other kids who went to our church heard about it, and... well..."

"I see." Dr. Taylor stroked her chin. "I'd like to ask you something, David, and I'm a little embarrassed I haven't asked this before: do you believe in God?"

Dave sank in his chair, his hands worrying at each other. "Uh... I'm not sure..."

"Take your time." A long silence followed, during which Dave's mind simply... blanked. He wasn't sure why or how, but his mind felt like it was slipping on grease down an icy sidewalk on a windy day; it just couldn't seem to get traction on the question. Dr. Taylor seemed to see this, much to Dave's utter lack of surprise. "You went to your mother's church even after your brother left it, didn't you?"

"Yeah..."

"I assume you haven't gone lately, have you?"

"Fuck, no." Dave grimaced. "Father Mitchell, he... He's tried to stop by the house a few times since... You know. Dad's always answered the door, though, so he never stays more than a few seconds."

Dr. Taylor nodded firmly. When they were looking for a therapist, Paul Karofsky had asked directly about her opinions on gay reparative therapy. She had frowned and said, with a slight chill in her voice, "Plainly put, Mr. Karofsky, I think it's a dangerous, damaging sham too often practiced by untrained priests masquerading as therapists. I have more opinions, but frankly, what I want to say would be unprofessional spoken in front of a potential patient." Dave could tell that that pretty much sealed the deal to his dad.

"Back to your brother... As I said, my understanding is that the two of you were actually quite close."

"I suppose."

"But not anymore?"

Dave's face turned stormy. "Not really."

"Because... he 'ran away'?"

Silence.

"From what?" Dr. Taylor asked. "Or perhaps... from whom?"

More silence. So the doctor was forced to continue again.

"Don't worry, David; I'm patient. Just take as much time as you need." True to her word, she sat back in her chair and just... waited, watching him carefully for signs of distress. Dave had no idea what he looked like in that moment, though; his mind was too busy whirling.

Sixty years later (or at least, it felt that way to him), they were still frozen in position: Dave half-slumped in his seat, Dr. Taylor holding his eyes with hers, her hands folded in her lap with such serenity that Dave was at once envious and mildly infuriated.

Finally, with such laborious effort that he almost grunted aloud:

"He knew I was gay."

"Jack?" Dave nodded, his tongue smacking in his bone-dry mouth. "How do you know he knew?"

"He told me. At the hospital. He was the one who told my dad. I guess I should be at least a little grateful; I dunno how I would've done it myself. I had to be half-dead on painkillers to tell my mom."

"How did he know?"

"I have no fucking idea. It's not exactly something I wanted to talk to him about. Ever."

"How about with me?"

Dave shook his head, although it wasn't an answer to the question. "Why?"

"Why do we talk about anything here? Because I think you need to confront your feelings instead of ignoring them or hating yourself for them. Especially when it comes to your loved ones..."

"He doesn't love me." Dave blinked; where the fuck had _that_ come from? It just... popped out, as if it had been living in his throat for years and happened to be dislodged by a random breath.

"Why do you think that?"

_Good fucking question._ But the answer seemed to be obvious, which only deepened his confusion, and the growing pressure behind his eyes. "He left me behind."

"What do you mean?"

"He... he _knew_. He knew I was gay, and what Mom was like, but he left me there... with _her_, with her church, with Father Mitchell, with all the little things she said every fucking day that..." Cold tears slipped down his face as he gestured helplessly towards... what? The heavens, towards which he once prayed to and cursed daily? He wasn't sure. He just had to do _something_ with his hands, or they'd act on their own accord. The last time they did that, they put a belt around his neck. "He _knew_, and he fucking _abandoned_ me. Why didn't he help me? Or at least warn me?" He whispered.

"What could he have done? He was a college student, just leaving to be on his own."

"I know that. I do. But he didn't even try to do something, to let me know that he..." A moment of silence followed. Then Dave laughed, a choked and wet sound, as though his windpipe were being closed off. "Oh my God, he did. He did try. And I not only knew it, I told him I hated him because of it. Holy shit, I am a motherfucking idiot. I not only expect everyone else to bail me out of my own problems, but when they actually try, I tell them to fuck off." His laughter grew louder, and a little hysterical.

"David..." Dr. Taylor began, concern in her voice.

Dave shook his head as the laughter trailed off into giggles. A tear ran over his upper lip and dripped into his mouth; his tongue tingled at the saltiness. "Sorry, sorry... I just... God, the more I come to therapy, the more fucked up I realize I am. Christ... I'm such a..." He was losing it, and he knew it. Dave closed his eyes, trying to remember the techniques Dr. Taylor had taught him, but it all seemed garbled through the haze of a dozen battering fists of anger and guilt and shame and...

"Focus, David." She wasn't touching him, but her voice was close. It cut through the tempest, allowing him the moment he needed to catch his breath, to get a hold of himself. The good days far outweighed the bad lately, thanks in no small part to Dr. Taylor. But when the bad days did come... Well, it was fortunate that this particular one was a session day. When he opened his eyes again with a shuddering breath, Dr. Taylor was still in that same position; if he hadn't known better, he would've sworn she never moved. "Are you all right?"

"I..." He took mental stock. "I think so."

"Do you need some time? We can stop for today if you want..."

"No... I'm gonna see him in less than an hour anyway. I gotta deal with this sometime, right?" He rubbed at his eyes, which surprised him with their dryness. "I... I should explain. Around the time I... kissed Kurt..." He'd used the word "assaulted" a few times at the beginning, another habit Dr. Taylor took care to quash ("Words have power, David. They say a lot about one's frame of mind, even if - _especially_ if - they're true. And I don't like what that word tells me about yours"). "Jack called me. He was... prodding me. A lot. About stuff. Trying to figure out why I was so angry and different and shit. I... I'm pretty sure he was trying to get me to tell him I was gay. No, I _know_ that's what he was trying to do. I knew it even back then. That's why I..." The lump in his throat barely let the next words by. "I... said stuff I regret. I pretty much cut him off after that, except to insult him more. When he came home for the holidays, I did everything I could to avoid him. But I didn't have to worry, 'cause he was the one avoiding me. I think he just... gave up. The hospital was the first time we'd said more than a few words to each other in over a year, and we still haven't really..."

He'd been practically vomiting up the last few sentences; they certainly made him feel sick to his stomach. "God, I just realized..." he said hoarsely. "I don't hate him. _He_ hates _me._ And I deserve it, too, for the way I treated him. Just another thing I've fucked up..."

Dr. Taylor coughed. It was a casual sound, but to Dave's ears, it was like a gunshot. He stopped cold. "How long has Jack been visiting?"

"A couple of days now. He leaves next week."

"And why?"

"Huh?"

"Why is he visiting?"

"I dunno. He's just... visiting."

"Does he make a habit of it?"

"Nah, not really. But with Mom not..." Dave had to take conscious mental effort to get the next words out. "Not around, I guess he feels better about coming home now."

Dr. Taylor shook her head. "It's not a holiday. He's not here to see your mother, and I doubt he's here because of your father. I think he's here for you."

Dave gaped. "Why the hell would he do a stupid thing like that?"

"I doubt Jack hates you, David. Otherwise, he wouldn't be blaming himself for your suicide attempt. I think he's doing what he was trying to do before: understand you and protect you." Dr. Taylor paused, a faraway look flashing in her eyes. "As one of three siblings myself, I can tell you from experience that they can surprise you with their capacity for caring, especially as they get older - when they get over the childhood impulses that make for all the rivalry and teasing." She regarded Dave for a moment before continuing. "Remember what we've discussed about what we're trying to accomplish in these sessions, David. You're very inwardly focused. You acted the outgoing jock to others, but you stew by yourself, burying yourself in your problems and worries alone. You need to reach out more, and I think this is a good opportunity to work further on that. Talk to your brother. That's the best advice I can give you right now."

When Dave got home, Jack was on the couch, watching TV. He was dressed in a dark grey athletic tee and shorts, his still-sneakered feet propped on the ottoman, so Dave guessed he'd just gotten back from his daily run. "Hey."

Jack turned. "Hey. How was the doctor?"

"Okay." If this had been any other conversation, it would've ended there. Dave would've gone up to his room. They would make small talk at dinner, maybe watch a movie. Then they'd go to bed and repeat the whole thing the next day. But... "Hey, there's still a lot of light left. Wanna toss around the football some?"

Jack whirled around, his eyes bugged wide. Dave almost laughed out loud; it was as though he'd just told him that Lady Gaga was their long lost sister or something like that. "Uh..." He also seemed to be having trouble speaking, which was definitely _not_ like Jack. "Sure. If you want to."

"Cool. Lemme just change and get my football." In a few minutes, the two were in the backyard, throwing the pigskin at each other in silence. The summer sun was still high in the sky for late afternoon, so the Midwest heat beat down on them both like fists. Dave paused to wipe sweat from his forehead, moving his hand away just in time to see the football rocketing directly for his face. Instinctively, he stepped back and threw up his hands; the football landed neatly in them with the soft "thunk" of faux leather. "Hey, watch it!"

"You caught it, didn't you?" Jack said with a shrug and a grin. "Pretty good one, for a right guard."

"Gee, thanks." Dave wound up for his throw. Later, Jack would swear that Dave chose that moment on purpose, just so what happened would happen. Dave countered that he'd been thinking about it for a long time, and that it seemed... right. Or because he was afraid that if he didn't say it _right that second_, he never would. Whatever the reason, Dave let loose a high, arcing throw. As it flew through the air, the words burst out of him: "I'm sorry, Jack."

Jack stared. The football bounced off his chest and rolled onto the grass between them. Neither noticed. It wasn't so much the words, because really, as Dr. Taylor once said, what two word phrase is more overused with insincerity than "I'm sorry"? But the tone, the emotion, the quiet force... It was clear to anyone who cared to hear.

"F-for what?"

"For... Fuck, you're really going to make me say it? For being such an asshole. For treating you like an enemy when you were just trying to help me. For..." He threw up his hands again, as helpless a gesture as it was when he caught the football. "For everything, I guess."

The only sounds were the barest rustling of leaves above them, the chirp of a passing bird, and dull roar of distant cars. The two stared at each other, as if each was expecting the other to say the next word. Finally, Jack bent down and picked up the football. "Want a soda?"

"Sure."

Neither said another word as Jack went back into the house, but Dave knew exactly where to go. He sat on the porch, on _his_ side of the front steps - his ever since that first summer when he and Jack sat there to watch the world go by (though Dave always suspected that Jack was more interested in Kylie Morgan across the street). Jack emerged a minute later with a can of soda in each hand. He tossed one to Dave. "Thanks." Dave opened his with caution and care (he suspected he didn't have to, but it took only one time with a faceful of Dr. Pepper and a hysterically laughing older brother to learn a lesson). He felt the icy coldness wash down his throat, heard the crack of Jack's can as he opened it.

Now there was a moment: the two brothers sitting on the steps, staring at nothing-yet-everything: the car parked across the street (the Morgans moved over ten years ago), the cat from down the block sauntering by as if she owned all she surveyed, the blonde jogger clutching her cell phone in her hand as she listened to God-knew-what music through white headphones (Dave snickered under his breath as he watched Jack's gaze trace her path down the sidewalk until she disappeared behind the hedges).

They could've sat there forever without speaking. In fact, Dave was pretty sure that they both sort of wanted to. But Dr. Taylor wouldn't like that, would she? And frankly, he'd come this far. Might as well go all the way. He cleared his throat; Jack's attention immediately whipped towards him. "Um... I've always kind of wondered... How did... you know?"

He didn't clarify further, but he had the feeling he didn't need to. As it turned out, it was entirely correct. "I didn't, not for sure, not until you... Y'know. But it was a bunch of little things, even when you were a kid. Who you'd look at on TV. That you never really had a girlfriend. The way you acted a couple of years ago. It just kind of... added up." Jack took a sip of soda. "I wanted to ask directly, but I didn't really know how. Plus, with Mom and the way things [Dave interpreted this word as "you"] were..." He turned towards Dave, who nearly recoiled in shock. The anguish on his brother's face... It went completely against his carefully built mental image of his brother as gregarious and confident. But then, his world had lots of cracks in it, for good and ill, so what was one more piece of grist for Dr. Taylor's mill? "I should be the one apologizing to you..."

"Jack..."

"Shut the fuck up and let me talk. I should've found a way to help you. I shouldn't have just left you behind like that."

Dave had thought this very thing of his brother a few times over the past few months. But now that he was hearing it from Jack's own lips, he felt the wild urge to deny, to reassure. _At least my time with Dr. Taylor won't be wasted. _"You didn't leave me behind..."

"What did I say about shutting the fuck up?" Jack snapped. Dave's mouth clammed shut, more out of pure habit than anything else; he frowned in annoyance. "I tried to tell myself that I didn't know for sure, that there wasn't anything I could do even if I were right... But I ignored the fact that even if you were straight, Mom was still poisoning your mind - making you another homophobe. I could've tried harder to get through to Dad, so _he _could protect you. Shit, Dave, you're my little brother. I should've protected you..."

Jack turned away, suddenly fascinated by the Dodge across the street. Dave couldn't help but notice the way Jack's face was pointedly turned as far away as he could get without going into circus contortions. "I'm not your responsibility, dude..."

"The hell you're not! Humanity is my responsibility! It's everyone's responsibility! So I should have tried to do something for my own brother..."

That tore it; Dave laughed. "Where the fuck did you get that from? A fortune cookie? Your last pot legalization protest?"

"From Stacy, and it's true, so shut up!" A smile crept into Jack's face as he shook his head, a smile that quickly vanished back into that anguish. "When I saw you in that hospital, Dave, it... I could've prevented that. I could've... It's my f-"

"I swear to God, Jack, if you say it's your fault, I'm going to beat the shit out of you." There was only the barest ripple of actual anger in his voice.

"I'd like to see you try." Jack had a smirk that Dave could tell was almost literally forcing its way onto his brother's face. Now that was the brother he knew.

"Go to hell." Dave shook his head. "Seriously, you tried to help me, and I threw it in your face..."

"Only because I didn't try hard enough before it became too much for you..."

"You didn't push me off that chair..."

"I could've kept you off it to begin with..."

"What could you have done that I would've accepted?"

"I could've at least tried..."

The two stared at each other. Despite the gulf between them, in age, temperament, all the little ways in which siblings are different... They had still known each other for almost two decades. So they knew exactly what the other was thinking, and it was what they themselves were thinking: _Damn, this is getting ridiculous..._

Dave was the first to break the silence. "Fine. We're both dipshits. Can we leave it at that, please?"

"I'm still..."

"Yeah, you're sorry, even if you have nothing to be sorry for. And I'm sorry..."

"... Even though I'd say the same thing."

"What, I'm a product of my upbringing? More of your liberal psych crap?"

Jack laughed. "Wait until you get out of this town. You'll see that the world's a lot more than Mom and her holy roller bullshit."

_When I get out of Lima..._ With everything that had happened these past few months, Dave had almost forgotten that dream. But now... even with all the hurdles he still had to get over, it somehow seemed closer than ever... "What, you want me to come out to California with you? Settle down in San Francisco, room with some drag queen?"

"Hey, you could do worse. I know a guy who's into dudes like you. He loves leather, and he has these tattoos that..."

Dave burst out in guffaws. But he also noticed that Jack hadn't said "no" to coming to California either.

They settled back into silence then, the conversation dying with the laughter. There was a lot not said in those minutes, a lot that they each knew they could've said. But for that reason, those things weren't said - at least not out loud. Not that this discussion was over - far from it. There was still a lot that had to be hashed out, a lot of healing to do (especially, Dave knew, on his part). And as siblings, he knew that the process would be a little rockier (or at least, a little more awkward) than it was between him and Dad.

But somehow, they both knew: this was a sort of start. And that was a hell of a lot better than nothing.

Jack crushed his empty soda can in one hand, a habit Dave suspected had something to do with fraternity beers. "I'm going inside. Game's starting soon. Interested?"

Dave shrugged as he too rose. "Sure, why not?"

Jack held open the door. "After you, my lady."

"Homophobic asshole," Dave snorted.

"Hey, I'm not saying gay people are effeminate. That's an offensive stereotype. All I'm saying is that _you personally_ have no balls. Never have."

"You wish. Even as a fag, I'm twice the man you are."

"How dare you use that word. Now who's the homophobe? I'm reporting you to PFLAG."

"I've got N-word privileges, motherfucker. Deal with it."

The banter continued for the rest of the evening - for the rest of Jack's visit, in fact, much to Dad's amusement.

It was annoying. It was snide. But it was also normal.

And for Dave, at that point in his life... a little normal wasn't the worst thing in the world.


	5. Sebastian

**AN: Brad Falchuk is dangerously deluded.**

**That is all.  
**

"Do you think people can really change?"

The question was muttered, practically under-the-breath.

"Pardon?" Dr. Taylor leaned forward.

When Dave next spoke, his voice was stronger, but not by a lot. "I said, do you think people can really change?"

"I'd be in the wrong business if I didn't. I'd probably be an art historian. Or a classical musician, perhaps. Why do you ask?"

Dave shrugged helplessly. "I dunno. I was sort of thinking about... what I did... to Kurt..." Each pause brought his voice, and his shoulders, lower and lower.

"In a constructive way, I hope?"

"Not really." Dave swallowed. "I was thinking... some of the stuff I did... especially not long after I... kissed him..." He didn't know it, but Dr. Taylor saw even that seemingly minor statement as an improvement; it had taken many sessions before Dave could actually talk about anything involving those days without shrinking to half his size in his chair and looking like he wanted to die. "It was really fucked up. I mean, if Kurt or someone thought that I was a stalker, or that I wasn't _capable_ of anything but anger and violence, even towards people I was... attracted to, I wouldn't really blame them..."

Dr. Taylor nodded encouragingly. "Speaking of which, how are your anger management sessions going?" As she'd told him very early on in their therapy, "I don't think you're any less angry than you were before; you've just redirected it, especially inward. Considering your past issues, I think learning about what makes people - and yourself - angry and how to handle it would be good for you, even if you're not beating anyone up anymore."

"Really good, actually. Thursday's my last one, and I think I'm gonna, uh, pass. I know it's not a class or anything, but you know what I mean..."

"I'm very glad to hear that. Let's connect that back to what you were saying before, with Kurt. The sexual advances. The cake topper." Just hearing someone saying the words made Dave pale. "With most people, you're right: the overt intent would be as far as most would go, and it would often be accurate. But as you know, people are usually more complex than that. I'd like to explore your reasons."

"Do they matter?" Dave asked hoarsely.

"Pardon?"

"Do they matter?" He hadn't meant to actually say the question that came to his head out loud, but the words were out there now, so what the hell. "I mean, I don't think anyone I pushed around or slushied really care why I did it... just that I did it. Kurt, _maybe_ he cared, or he wouldn't have done anything for me to begin with, but... even him, sometimes I kinda wonder." Dave looked up, his hands clasped so tightly over his stomach that they were white knuckled. "I can't take any of it back. I want to, I wish I could, but I can't. So in the big picture, does why really matter? No matter what my whys were, I still fucked up. I still almost ruined Kurt's life. I still made a bunch of people afraid to even come to school. Hell, my reasons might make it _worse..._"

"I think they matter a lot. Maybe you're right; it may not matter to the world at large, or to the kids you bullied. But it matters - should matter - a lot to _you_. Acknowledging and exploring feelings, David, instead of bottling them up and trying to ignore them. That's how you make positive changes in your life, how you become a better person, how you keep yourself from being in such a dark place that you become a bully or contemplate suicide. Isn't that what we're here for?" There was no response, so Dr. Taylor continued. "So I do want to talk about your reasons for your bullying - not as an excuse for or diminishing of your actions, but as a way to be more honest with yourself and to better understand your mindset and your emotions. What have you learned here and in anger management about that time?"

"That I was blaming someone else for how I felt." Dave looked up with a blank look that instantly set off Dr. Taylor's concern. "That's how abusers work, y'know. 'You made me hit you.'"

"David..."

"I know, I know. I just... shit. Every time I think about what I was doing... It made so much sense then. Or... maybe not. Maybe I just didn't think about how insane I was acting. I was just _so scared -_ and angry that I was scared - that I couldn't see anything else but the fear."

"Everyone feels fear, even if different people react to it in different ways. Some people shut down. Others run. Still others lash out."

"I was definitely the last one. Hell, maybe I still am the last one. I still wonder..." Dave shuddered.

"Wonder what?"

"If I hadn't... driven Kurt out, if he'd stayed... what would I have done? Would I have just kept doing worse and worse to him until...?"

Dr. Taylor seemed to consider her response for a moment before answering. "When you threatened to kill him, did you have any intention of following through?"

"No... I just wanted to scare him. But he didn't know that..."

"Granted, but that's not what I was asking. Did you really _want_ to kill him?"

"What? God, no!"

"Then why do you think you would've escalated?"

"I don't know. It's just that when I think about that time... I just feel like such a monster..."

"I believe I've told you before that real monsters are a lot rarer than Hollywood would have you think. They're either born or made. You don't seem to have been born a monster, and as far as I know, you haven't had anything happen in your life to make you one. So I think you fall into the vastly more common default: human, which is a lot more complex. It may not be an excuse, but it's a fact nonetheless." Dr. Taylor smiled kindly. "Welcome to the club, David."

"Thanks," Dave snorted good naturedly. He rubbed his face. "I know I'm not supposed to think about 'deserving', but I can't help it sometimes." He didn't go into further detail, but he knew he didn't have to.

"Do you think you deserve to be miserable for the rest of your life because of what you've done? Is that appropriate and reasonable punishment?"

"I dunno. I guess that comes right back to my question."

"Well, it's not exactly the question you wanted to ask, was it? What you actually wanted to ask was probably more along the lines of, 'can _I_, David Karofsky, change? Have I?'"

"I... guess so."

"Then I think if it's what you really want, and if you're willing to put in the effort, be honest with yourself, and perhaps work through some mental trauma, the answer is yes. In fact, if I haven't made it clear before, I think you have already changed appreciably for the better in many ways since we first met." Dr. Taylor let that sink in for a moment before speaking once more. "So why now?" she asked. "You've had a lot of time to think about this, and we've talked a lot about it. Why did this come to mind now?"

Dave paused in thought. After a moment, he answered. "Sebastian, I guess."

"The boy who insulted you at the bar?"

"Yeah. I told you about how he showed up at the hospital to apologize, right? And I said it wasn't a big deal... I really meant that, you know... He wasn't exactly at the top of my mind when I was trying to hang myself..." Dr. Taylor nodded encouragingly, so he continued. "Anyway, he sent me an e-mail last week. Out of nowhere. Said he got my address from Kurt."

"What did he say?"

"Not much. Just that he was reminded of me while he was at work, and was curious about how I was doing. Nothing really personal or anything. Just a check in 'cause he was kinda halfway interested. But man... That's way more than I expected of him. He's done a _lot_ I never expected of him." Dave shook his head in wonder. "The guy is... was... an asshole. He has this rep at Scandals, and I'd talked with some of the other guys there about him too. My friend Tim said he had basically two moods: arrogantly spoiled and spoiled-ly arrogant. And the way he talked to me... That just confirmed it. But he actually came to see me in the hospital, even if it was just to get over his own guilt... It's more than a lot of people I thought were friends did for me, and I didn't know he _could_ feel guilt. And he dedicated his glee club's performance to me and contributed to a charity in my name... I had no idea he could be like that." Dave snickered. "Or that he'd lower himself to actually _work_, come to think of it."

He fell silent again. Dr. Taylor finally broke the quiet. "So you were wondering if that meant you could change, like him."

Dave nodded. "From what I heard, he's a real piece of work. He sleeps around all the time. He tried to steal Kurt's boyfriend and slushie Kurt. He tried to blackmail the glee club. But what he did after... It was completely different."

"Maybe not." Dave looked up at Dr. Taylor with a startled, questioning look, so she continued. "Human behavior and personalities are very complex, David. Some people are very forthright and genuine, showing all of themselves to the world. Others... aren't. Sometimes they don't even realize they're putting up fronts. In addition, very few get to see _everything_ about another person, since circumstance so often dictates behavior." She paused for a moment, perhaps to take a breath - Dave wasn't sure. "Actions may speak louder than words, but even they don't tell the whole story 100% of the time. "It could be that Sebastian is a perfectly decent person..." Dave coughed. "...who plays at being the high maintenance rich kid." Dr. Taylor shrugged. "Or maybe not. I'm not his therapist. But the point remains: people are complex. Even you."

"Yeah?"

Dr. Taylor nodded. "You're afraid that what you showed other people - the violent, obsessive, closeted jock - is all you really are. At least, that's what I seem to hear from you here. But would a person like that be here now? Have done the things you've done, such as the Bully Whips?"

"Which I was blackmailed into. Besides, does any of that make up for everything?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But despite what the Egyptians thought, I don't think there's anyone out there with a pair of scales weighing the good and bad you've done in your life. You're still young, and you're on the right track now; you have years ahead of you to correct the balance if you think you need to. Besides, do you think Kurt, for example, would be unhappy that there's one more gay man who's coming to terms with who he is - one fewer in the closet and lashing out at the world?"

_Would Kurt be proud of me? _The thought slipped into his head like a ninja, stabbing him in the back of his brain without warning (he had to admit, the analogy was both appropriate and kind of badass). He didn't say it aloud, though; he let Dr. Taylor continue.

"I'm not going to say your feelings are illegitimate, David. You feel guilty, and that's expected and rational - and, in fact, says more about you than you think. But brooding and self-punishment aren't going to make your past or future any better. Karma isn't up to us; what we _can_ control is how we make ourselves, and the world, better, and you can't do that if you defeat yourself before you begin. I'm going to make a half-serious suggestion here: maybe Sebastian's arrogance is a good thing in his case. He, like you, is trying to make up for poor past behavior. Assuming he's sincere and actually trying to learn and grow, perhaps his inflated belief in himself is sustaining his efforts, driving him forward by getting him past the self-recrimination stage faster, or at least lessening its effect on what he actually _does_."

"God, if you ever meet him, please do _not_ tell him that. He'd just get even _worse_."

Dr. Taylor smiled for a moment, then continued. "Sebastian sounds like a very powerful symbol for you, David. As with Santana, there are certainly decent parallels to be made between your actions and your lives. And, again as with Santana, I think there's a learning opportunity here to understand yourself better based on how you think of and approach others, especially when there's that much in common."

Dave pondered the words for a moment. He didn't think he had a lot in common with Sebastian Smythe: different body types, outlooks (especially about sex), personalities... But thinking about it some more... Yeah... There _was_ some overlap there, wasn't there? "What are you, some kinda mind reader?"

"Hardly. Just, I hope, good at what I do. In my view, my job is twofold: to be a sounding board, and to encourage my patients to make positive change in their own lives. Part of the latter is, as I believe you've put it, 'telling it how I see it.' I haven't had a patient yet whom I thought was a lost cause or not deserving of good things in their life. But then, I suppose it's self-selective; those who are self-aware enough and motivated enough to come to me in the first place have already taken a significant step forward, provided they follow through." Dr. Taylor glanced at the fancy glass-domed clock on her desk; Dave's eyes flickered there as well; their session was nearly at an end. "I want you to repeat what you did with Santana for Sebastian: think about your commonalities, your attitude towards him, and what that tells you about yourself."

Dave nodded; he'd always hated homework, but this wasn't just memorizing dates or writing proofs (though he kind of enjoyed the latter; it was kind of like working a jigsaw puzzle). This was digging into _himself_, which made it that much harder - and that much more worthwhile. "You think this'll help me figure out what to do now? How to make up for being such a monst- rotten person? I didn't think that was possible for a long time."

"As you said, you can't take back what you've already done. But if you've truly changed, David - or, if your father is to be believed, returned to yourself - you'll give yourself the chance to at least try to give some meaning to your past actions other than just suffering and fear. And I think the way you can best do that is to let yourself become a better person. It won't just benefit you; think of the impact it'll have on your family, your friends..." She noticed Dave's slight wince at the word, but that would be a subject for later. "Think about what you could do for others with the kind of growth you've been showing here. I think letting your past fester and drag you down is what will make your past irredeemable. Next time, let's take some time to discuss ways you might be able to accomplish what you want."

Of course, Dave thought as he returned home, they'd already touched on a few possibilities: volunteering for the Trevor Project came up as an example, as had joining a gay support organization and just seeing what opportunities arose. At first, he was somewhat annoyed that the suggestions had revolved around his sexuality, but then, as Dr. Taylor said, it would help him too - give him more time and chance to become comfortable in his own skin.

That brought him back to Sebastian. There was someone almost _too_ comfortable in his own skin, which made Dr. Taylor's theories about him that much more laughable. Then again, she had a point: if the surface was truly all there was to him, he never would've even felt bad about what he said to Dave in the first place, words Dave himself had almost entirely forgotten a week later.

_Maybe she's right; maybe I need to be a little more arrogant._ Dave's breath huffed in laughter; arrogance was what got him into trouble to begin with. Or maybe not; his behavior _presented_ itself as arrogance, but he knew better than anyone that it wasn't anything of the kind, was it?

Dave was mildly surprised to find himself sitting in front of his laptop; he'd been thinking about that last sliver of cheesecake all the way home. So what was he intending to...? As the computer screen flickered to life from sleep mode, there it was, the first thing he saw: the e-mail from Sebastian, still open.

Oh.

Dave frowned. It'd certainly be polite to at least let Sebastian know how he was doing (though he still wasn't sure how much detail to go into; just an "okay" or "fine" would be kind of douchey - Sebastian-level douchey), but... Was that it? It wasn't like they were friends or anything; they barely even knew each other, really. Most of what their contact had been casual talk in a noisy, crowded bar or vicariously, through Kurt Hummel. Dave wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to be friends with someone like him.

Still... As Dr. Taylor pointed out, they _did _have something somewhat in common. Could Sebastian actually understand what was going through Dave's head? If not offer advice, then at least commiserate, make him feel a little less alone? Just yesterday, Dave would've found the idea laughable, but now...

Dave shook his head. "Get it together, Karofsky," he muttered to himself. He started to write a reply to Sebastian's e-mail. Nothing too personal, but at least offering the possibility of wanting a reply, of wanting to reply to that reply. Hell, who knows - they could even get an amicable acquaintanceship out of all this.

And wouldn't that be a kick in the teeth?


	6. Azimio

"Friends?" Dave's head seemed to droop, his shoulders wilt. "I... I don't know if I have any friends."

Dr. Taylor's pen scratched on paper. It really was a basic question, but it was also one that Dave had avoided answering via every trick in the book (and some improvised at the last possible second) to avoid answering - or, at least, avoid answering with any kind of useful detail. But now, after so many sessions and so much thought and so much discussion under their belts, Dave was actually, finally, facing the question of "what about your friends?" head on.

"Most of my friends at McKinley were my football teammates," Dave continued, "since I pretty much lost all my hockey friends after I left the team. But once I was gone, none of 'em really seemed to care. Well, there was one exception, and he didn't last. As for Thurston... It was actually kind of the same thing, except I had the added problems of being the new kid joining in senior year. I... I guess that's why Kurt not getting back to me bothered me. I thought... maybe I could finally have a friend, a _real_ friend..."

"Have you heard from anyone at McKinley since your suicide attempt? At least, anyone you associated with willingly while you were there?"

Dave shook his head, his chest feeling... full somehow. "No. The only ones who bother are the ones who I thought were losers then. I mentioned Sebastian, but did you know that some of Kurt's glee club still sends me e-mails once in a while? I mean, it's mostly guys I knew before, like Sam and Mike [it felt odd, calling them by their first names, but Dave had long since decided that they deserved that much respect], but they actually do. Nothing heavy - just 'hi' and memes from Facebook and shit, but it's a hell of a lot better than nothing." He paused thoughtfully. "I have no idea why they're bothering, considering I actually got into a fistfight with most of 'em. I'm kinda afraid to ask; I don't want 'em to stop." He shook his head. "It's un-fucking-believable. I mean, as far as I can tell, it's pure pity... or maybe they're lonely without Kurt around, but even that..."

"It's more than you expected." Dr. Taylor smiled gently. "You seem to say that a lot."

Dave blinked. "Yeah... I guess I do." _People surprise you with their capacity for caring,_ Dr. Taylor had once said.

"It seems they've forgiven," Dr. Taylor said pointedly. "Or, at least, they're willing to try."

"Maybe..." Dave thought about that for a moment. "But I still dunno if they're friends. They're not, not really... Christ, sometimes I feel so alone... If it weren't for Dad, sometime I wonder if..." Tears were brimming in his eyes now. He'd resisted them often in the first sessions, but Dr. Taylor had gently dismantled those walls, brick by brick, until he found himself being about to cry more in her office than practically anywhere else, and _not_ think of himself as some kind of pussy.

"Wonder if what?"

The concern in her voice stopped the tears. "Not if I could try killing myself again, if that's what you're afraid of. But... if I'm supposed to be... alone. If I deserve it. I know, I know," he began, forestalling the inevitable protest from Dr. Taylor, "but Valentine's Day kind of shot any idea of me being with anyone all to hell."

"Why? Kurt isn't the only gay teenager in the world. Or even in Lima."

"Because..." Dave rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Because of the way I acted. Like some kind of fucking stalker. If I'm really like that..."

"Why do you think you were a stalker?" Dave snorted, despite himself; that was Dr. Taylor for you, always asking questions instead of answering them, turning everything he said back on himself. He understood why she did it, but damn if it wasn't annoying a lot of the time.

"Because I tried to take Kurt away from his boyfriend..."

"Who you thought was with Sebastian, as you've already told me."

"I gave stuff to him without him asking for it..."

"On Valentine's Day? Horrors." Dr. Taylor smirked a little; Dave followed suit. "Perhaps the 'secret admirer' thing is played out, and a little creepy to some, but those actions in and of themselves don't necessarily make you a stalker."

"He thought I was his boyfriend..."

"Which you didn't know or intend."

"But with our history..." Dave paused; he could almost feel the warmth of the light bulb over his head. "Our history..." He sighed. "That's what it comes down to, doesn't it? What it always comes down to? If his boyfriend had done what I did, if Hudson had done it... Hell, if Coach Sylvester had done it..." He paused for the barest moment to laugh at the mental image. "No one would've ever thought twice about it. But it was me. The guy who threatened to kill him. God, maybe you were right to tell me not to talk to Kurt. I just feel like... what I did weighs on everything I do - taints everything. Can I really make up for something like that?"

Dr. Taylor's voice was firm. "Can you? Certainly. The only question is, _will_ you? The way I see it, the only barrier to your future happiness, your redemption, is you. You did something terrible. You acknowledge it, and freely admit it. But the worst thing you can do - the thing that would make those actions truly unforgivable - is if you let it define the _rest_ of your life - define who you really are. You say you don't want to be that guy - Karofsky - anymore, that you aren't really him. But letting yourself drown in your past mistakes is giving up to him, saying that he really _was_ you. And I don't think that's true at all." Dr. Taylor looked Dave straight in the eye, an unwavering, penetrating gaze that somehow failed to make him uncomfortable. "This is a persistent issue for you. I know it's hard to change. But that's why you're here: to find ways to accomplish your goals and be a better and happier person. That's why we talk about - and more importantly, work on - the self-esteem, the future planning, your relationships. But you have to put in the effort. You have to believe in yourself. And that's why I wanted to talk about your friends."

"Damn, I'd hoped you'd forgotten about that," Dave replied half-jokingly, with a smirk that just barely rang false.

"You've mentioned quite a few people, but you haven't talked about your friend Azimio."

Dave snorted. "What the fuck is there to say that I haven't already told you?" Dave had hashed over that phone call in agonizingly exquisite detail: the indignation in Z's voice over the _lies_ being posted on Dave's Facebook wall, Dave's confession, the yelling, the recriminations... It wasn't _the_ straw that broke the camel's back, _the_ moment where everything seemed to be falling apart, _the_ impetus for Dave's suicide attempt... But it sure as fuck didn't help his state of mind.

"I assume that means you haven't heard anything else from him since that day?"

"Nope. And I'd better not, or I wouldn't be responsible for my reaction."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"You said you two had been friends for a very long time."

"Yeah, so?"

"You seem very angry at him, which is natural and your right, but you don't regret the loss of that friendship at all, regardless of the reason? You don't miss Azimio not being in your life for the first time since elementary school?"

Dave shrugged. "He's the one who threw it all away for a stupid reason. Fuck him."

"That doesn't answer my question, David."

Dave opened his mouth, fully intending to tell the truth: hell, no, he didn't miss Azimio. He didn't miss the friendship, didn't think at all of the good times they shared, didn't ever think of him or wonder how he was doing.

"Yeah. I do miss him."

Wait. Wait one fucking second.

Oh, hell.

The realization was more startling than it should've been. If he'd seen it sooner, he would've been prepared for the wave of cold sadness that washed down his lungs and settled in his stomach.

"Feelings and bonds like that aren't something that we can just flip a switch and turn off, even with serious betrayal," Dr. Taylor said. "Especially when it happens so suddenly."

Dave pinched the bridge of his nose. "I just... I wonder if I could've done something different. If I could've... I dunno, been a better friend. Or maybe if I hadn't been such a self-hating closet case, if I could've changed his attitude towards gays..."

"How so?"

"I met Az at church. At Mom's church. And his dad was the deacon there."

"Ah." Dr. Taylor paused for a moment in silent consideration. "But this is another facet of what I've been telling you, what we've been working on. You can't live the rest of your life in regrets, David. You may not have lived your life the best you could before now, but you have the fresh opportunity to do so every day. And no matter how deep a hole you think you've dug for yourself, I don't think there's one so deep that it can't be climbed out of. I've known some patients of colleagues who had to deal with years of neglectful parenting and substance abuse, and they've been able to put together lives that are rich and meaningful. But it's not easy, as you well know."

Dave laughed, just a touch of bitterness creeping in. "Shit, yeah." His look turned thoughtful, faraway; Dr. Taylor waited patiently for him to speak again. "I... I don't know about what I'm feeling about Az," he finally said. "I try not to think about him, but he was my best friend for so long... It's hard to do anything without being reminded of _something_ we did. Back when life actually made sense." He paused. "Except for the whole closet thing, I mean."

Dr. Taylor nodded. "I think one reason for that is the suddenness of what happened. A longstanding lifeline was cut off from you without any closure, without any chance to really explore what it meant, what it still means, to you." She smiled a little. "Besides now, I mean."

"Closure..." Dave turned the word over on his tongue. "How the fuck am I supposed to get that with Az?"

"That's a very good question. I've talked with you about reducing toxic influences in your life..."

"Yeah." Some of it had been easy, like cutting himself off from Thurston - too many assholes, too many reminders, too few (and there was that word again) friends. Other parts, like deleting his Facebook page, had been surprisingly difficult - perhaps because it was a reminder of the severity of what had happened to him. Still other parts had been - were still - _extremely_ difficult...

"So I'm not sure that contacting him would be a good idea, for a number of reasons. On the other hand, as I said, a connection like this is not one that's severed lightly. I believe that Azimio could very well be one of those regrets I mentioned. You may need to deal with it in some capacity if you're to move on."

"So... what do I do?"

Dr. Taylor grinned. "For once, I'm going to suggest something you're already inclined to do: wait. Do some more healing first, regain a healthy perspective, see what happens both around you and inside you. Maybe circumstances will take you where you need to go. At the least, you'll be able to work to a point where you can deal with Azimio without harm to your own well-being."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Oh, it's anything but, a fact I'm sure you realize. But you aren't always ready for these kinds of things right away... And perhaps neither was Azimio."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that, as I've told you before, people are a lot more complex than those around them think... Maybe even more complex than they themselves realize. The same applies to life, which can push people in ways they never thought they'd go."

Dave snorted. "Got that right."

"Next time," Dr. Taylor continued, in that tone of voice that told Dave that they were wrapping things up for the day, "I'd like to delve a little more into your old and current friendships, especially with Azimio. I know it's difficult, but so is progress - and I think this is an area that may have applications and consequences for your future relationships. Do some thinking about your memories and impressions."

Dave honestly wasn't sure how much thought he _wanted_ to devote to his so-called "friends," let alone Azimio. The two of them had been bros for a long time, ever since that day after Sunday School when Az flashed his Blue-Eyes White Dragon across the room. They'd spent so much time at each other's houses that Az's mom called him her "third son." He'd spent a week staying at the Karofsky house after his dad died in that car accident. They studied together, partied together, played football together (hell, if it hadn't been for Az, Dave had no idea whether he would've been welcomed onto the team to begin with). So many years, all shot the fuck to hell in less than two hours.

But... he supposed he always had a deep-down fear of how Az would react if he knew the truth. After all, Mr. Adams, deacon at St. Luke's, had been one of Father Mitchell's right hand men for years. And anyone who went to St. Luke's... Well, he knew what they were like, all too intimately.

As for the rest of the guys... He'd come to realize, under Dr. Taylor's guidance, that there was yet another reason he was envious of Kurt, so envious that he'd gone frankly a little (little?) crazy: he had real friends. Friends who were willing to fight for him, to look ridiculous at his side, to accept him and everything that made him him. Sure, Dave's fellow teammates, in both hockey and football, were guys he'd swap jokes with and have a beer with, but depending on them? Trusting them? Doing the kinds of things Kurt's friends did for him? No fucking way.

If there was anyone, _anyone_ in his life who _might've_ done it, it would've been Az. It was that slight, tiny sliver of hope - hope that their friendship would be stronger than his upbringing - that made it so hard in the end. Strando, Cooper, Peyton... He really didn't give a shit about any of them in the end (and didn't that say a lot about people he thought were friends). But Azimio...

He really didn't want to think about it. But he knew he'd have to, if only because Dr. Taylor promised she would "make" him. As it turned out, he really didn't have any choice in the matter.

A few days after that session with Dr. Taylor, Dave was at home, doing some summer schoolwork, when the doorbell rang. He got up, already planning his reaction if it was a Jehovah's Witness (hit on him/her, just for shits and giggles), college student selling magazines (laugh, then slam the door in his/her face), or Father Mitchell (well, he really _wouldn't_ do what he was thinking - he didn't think he'd like prison).

The person - people - he saw on the other side of his front door? Well, he had nothing planned for _them_. Except maybe staring with his jaw open like a fucking idiot.

Lenora Adams had always been fond of Dave, a fact which he thanked his lucky stars for ever since the first time he saw her get angry at her son Azimio. They were ten, and they'd gone biking. Naturally, they decided to go to the one place their parents forbade them to go: Clifford's Hill, a mess of large sharp rocks, steep drop-offs, and thorny bushes. At some point, Az had managed to wreck his bike, the new Schwinn he'd gotten for Christmas, at the bottom of a gully. Az himself was unhurt, but as he himself put it, "I won't be once Momma gets her hands on me."

It was already sundown (a rules violation in of itself) when Az finally decided to go home and face the music. He'd begged Dave to stay with him the whole time (and Dave did, despite knowing he'd get in trouble himself for being home late, because they were friends). What followed, Dave never forgot, mostly because he still thought of Mrs. Adams as the sweet lady who made them cookies and took them to the playground. She wasn't explosive, but even at that age, Dave could _feel_ the explosion waiting to come out. That was the worst part. She was also far from abusive, but she could be, as Azimio put it, "_real_ strict" if provoked. And this was nothing if not provocation.

"Azimio Adams, are you _insane_? Have you gone out of your ever-loving _mind_? I _told_ you about Clifford's Hill, didn't I? What did I tell you? You're lucky you didn't _kill_ yourself, young man! I raised you to be _smarter_ than this! I cannot _believe_ that you..." And on and on.

Dave didn't see Az anywhere but at school for the next month.

Even now, so many years later, his memories of that day seemed to clash with the woman standing on his front porch. Lenora Adams was tall and thin, her skin as dark as her son's, with straight bobbed hair and delicate hands. Only her eyes, brown and intense, gave any hint of the strength of personality Dave knew she had; in every other way she seemed the pleasant suburban wife and mother - much like Dave's own mom, but in many ways... not. To say the least.

Dave was so in shock, he barely registered Azimio behind her. His eyes were downcast, his right foot kicking at nothing in particular.

"Hello, David, honey," Mrs. Adams said warmly. "How are you doing?"

"Uh... Hi, Mrs. Adams... I-I'm doing okay..."

"Did you get the card I gave to your father?"

"Yes, I did, thank you. It was very nice."

She nodded and smiled. "Can I - can _we_ - come in?"

Dave swallowed. It wasn't that he was afraid that Az would try something; he could take the dude any day of the week. Besides, his _mom_ would rip his balls off if he so much as looked at Dave funny. It was just that... he didn't think he wanted to talk to Az any more than Az obviously did - er, didn't. He didn't want to have to slam the coffin lid on the smoldering, spat-upon remains of his oldest friendship.

But then, like Dr. Taylor said, if he didn't, sometime... He'd never move on. Dave wasn't sure if he still believed in God anymore (after all, Mom did, and, well...), but maybe this was some kind of sign. And if he was going to talk to Azimio, this was the best possible set of circumstances: he was prepared, this was his home, and Az's mother, She Who Must Be Obeyed, right there.

So it was that he finally said, through a throat that felt far too dry to create words, "Yeah. Sure."

"Thank you." Mrs. Adams entered; Azimio didn't. He remained on the porch, eyes toward the ground. Mrs. Adams turned around, frowning. "Get your ass in here!" she snapped. Az immediately obeyed, and Dave couldn't blame him; it was _that_ tone of voice. The tone that meant "huge trouble."

In the next moment, both Adamses were sitting on the living room sofa. Dave hovered next to his father's recliner, unsure whether he should sit down or be ready for fight/flight. Az still wouldn't look at him.

"We're here," Mrs. Adams said, "because I just found out why my _idiot_ son..." Here she cast a glare at said son that shriveled both boys, "... hasn't talked to you in months. Now, you boys have been friends for almost a decade now, and I've watched you both grow up into young men together. I'll be _damned_ if I'm going to let it end this way. So I've brought Azimio here so you can hash things out. You deserve that much, David. If he's going to cut you off like you were nothing, he's at least going to do it to your face."

"Ma..." Az began, the first Dave had heard his voice in a long time.

"Mrs. Adams, you don't need to..."

"Oh, yes, I do." Those hard words ended all protests from them both. "Now, I won't spy; the two of you can go into the kitchen. And you won't come out until you have come to some kind of understanding. Maybe you'll be friends again, maybe not. But you _will_ at least have tried."

"Mrs. Adams, I really appreciate this, but..."

"'But' nothing," she replied flatly. She turned her gaze back to Azimio. He didn't move. She slapped the back of his head, and he rocketed to his feet. "Now, march. Into the kitchen, both of you."

"Ma..." Azimio began again, but without even the feeble strength the word had had before.

"Now." The word was gentler, but had lost none of its firmness. Azimio speed-walked into the kitchen. Dave began to follow, but he paused at the soft touch on his arm. "If he tries anything, you have my permission to beat him senseless."

Dave couldn't help but laugh a little, though it sounded a little strained to his ears. "Gotcha." His smile died as Mrs. Adams' face settled into something other than anger, something he recognized from his own father: haggard worry. He scuttled into the kitchen.

As the door swung shut behind him, he could see Az was already seated on a tall stool, his elbows set on the kitchen island counter, staring at... well, the only thing in that direction was the microwave, and that wasn't particularly interesting. He remembered the last time Azimio had sat on that stool: just a month and a half before his suicide attempt, when Az swung by one Sunday after church for "some of that amazing brunch your mom puts out," and to catch up on what was going on at Thurston. That, and complain about why Dave had to transfer. He'd put Az's queries and demands for answers off, as usual. Not that it mattered; he had all the answers he needed, and then some, just weeks later.

Azimio stared as Dave walked into the room. Dave stared back. Neither said a word, or even moved. A car roared by outside, blasting a bass beat. Dave wanted to make a joke about that, considering Azimio's own musical tastes, but it died before he could even begin to shape the words.

And still neither spoke.

Finally, Dave sighed. "Dude... This is a _terrible_ idea..."

"I _know_!" Azimio burst out. "But you know my ma. Once she gets an idea in her head..."

"Yeah, like that month she made us work at your uncle's farm? 'It'll build character,' she said."

"Oh, God, don't remind me. I think some of my clothes _still_ smell like hay and cow shit!"

"Not that that stopped you from making eyes at the girl at the general store."

"Hey, she was _fine_! Even _you _gotta admit that..." Azimio trailed off, the laughter dropping from his eyes and face; Dave could almost hear it shattering into pieces on the floor. Az's gaze returned to the microwave again, but this time, his hands worried at each other, as if he were trying to twist his fingers off at the knuckles.

"Dude..." Dave began. "Z... I miss you, man." A worried, terrified look sprang into Azimio's eyes; Dave's temper flared. "Not like _that_! Shit, you think I'm trying to fucking hit on you? Are you fucking joking?"

"I don't know _what_ I'm supposed to think! All these years, Dave! All these years! You've been lying to me, to your Mom, to Father Mitchell..."

"Fuck Father Mitchell!" Dave snarled. Those three words seemed to affect Azimio more than anything else done or said; he actually looked _hurt_. "You're taking his side over mine? Over your best friend?"

"I'm taking _God's_ side, dumbass! You know, the big man upstairs? The guy we've been _praying_ to every week since we were kids?"

"Oh, right," Dave sneered. "_God_ told you to fucking drop my ass like I was some kind of fucking leper."

"He did! The Bible says..."

"Fuck the Bible! Why, Z? Come on, man, why? I thought we were friends! Why did you-?"

"I _didn't have a choice_!"

Dave opened his mouth to say, "like hell you didn't," but stopped cold. _Holy shit... Is he _crying_? _Dave thought that if he stared long enough, Azimio's eyes would clear of moisture, those streaks on his face would disappear. But they didn't.

"_You're_ the one who's wrong, man! You're... you're just not right!" Even as Az spat out the words, Dave could hear the falseness in them, as clear as if Azimio were saying "I'm full of bullshit" out loud. It was as though he wasn't so much speaking to Dave as to himself. "You're goin' against God. You're going to _Hell_, man!"

"Z..."

"You're going to Hell, and I'm not gonna have my best friend in Heaven with me, and..." Azimio leaped to his feet, pacing the kitchen like a caged animal, his fingers gouging his short hair. He turned, such pure desperation in his face that Dave was honestly shocked. "You gotta talk to Father Mitchell. You gotta get into Haven Lake and..."

"No!" Dave yelled. "I'm not going to some fucking straight camp! They don't work!"

"How the fuck would you know?!"

"I can't change who I am! I'm _gay_, Az!" Dave bellowed. Some part of him was calm enough to react in wonder at those words, as short and simple and true as they were. Despite Dave's still growing acceptance of his sexuality, he didn't often say - or even think - those words, especially not aloud to others. But there they were, and not one atom of the universe flew off-course because of them. "I'm _gay_! I like _guys_, and there's nothing fucking wrong with that! Shit, maybe someday I'll fucking _marry_ a dude!"

"You shut your goddamn fucking mouth," Azimio gasped, as if scandalized. "It was Hummel, wasn't it? He..."

"NO!" Dave shrieked at a volume that actually made Azimio stagger back. "Don't you _dare_ bring Kurt into this! He didn't do a fucking thing to me! I've _always_ been gay! I was just too scared and stupid to be myself!" The bottom of Dave's white-knuckled fist slammed into the wall. Pain lanced through his arm at the impact, but he didn't mind; it took some of the edge off his anger and despair. He took a pair of ragged breaths, trying to will himself into calm, trying to remember what he'd learned from Dr. Taylor and anger management. It was working, but only barely. When Dave finally spoke again, his voice was hoarse, soft. "Come on, Z... You were... you are... you're my best friend, dude. You fucking _know_ me. You know I haven't changed. I'm... I'm still Dave."

"No, you're not," came Azimio's trembling voice. "Not as long as you keep turning away from God..."

"You know I'm not. And you know I'm not lusting after your fat ass." A laugh, slightly wet and slightly hysterical, came out of them both, as if forced out. "There's no reason we can't... Shit, Az, I _need_ you, man. I need my best friend." His voice dropped even further, into a true whisper. "Please...?"

Azimio stared, his jaw literally shaking. His tears were gone, but Dave could almost see them building. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Opened, then closed. Finally... "I..." His hands closed into trembling fists. "I..." His head snapped away. "I can't."

With that, he ran out of the kitchen, the door banging hollowly against the wall. Dave barely heard Azimio's mother call out his name before the front door tore open, then slammed shut again with a crash. His knees weak, Dave staggered backwards onto the stool Az had vacated just minutes before. His face dropped into his hands.

He found he couldn't cry; he supposed he'd used up all his tears with his dad, with Jack, with Kurt. Still, the darkness was kind of soothing in its own weird way. Because of it, though, he didn't realize he wasn't alone until he heard Mrs. Adams' trembling voice. "I'm so sorry, David." He looked up; she was standing in the kitchen doorway, one foot in and one foot out, as if unsure whether to approach him. "I thought... I thought he'd be stronger than this."

Dave shook his head. "It's not your fault..."

"I thought he'd come around," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "Rejecting you was _killing_ him, David. If you could have only seen him after you... your..." She closed her eyes for a moment. "That's why I brought him here. I thought it meant he'd accept you, that he'd finally..." Her eyes opened again, zeroing in on Dave in what seemed almost like desperation, as if it were vitally important to the fate of the world that he _know_, that he _understood_.

"I knew what his father believed when I married him," she said quietly. "I hope you remember, he was a good man. I thought that when we had children, we'd be able to balance our beliefs, put them on a path we could both agree on." Dave vaguely wondered if he should be listening at all; it felt _wrong_ to be hearing this kind of thing from an adult. But Mrs. Adams pressed on, heedless of his discomfort, or of anything, really. "When he became deacon at St. Luke's... I should've put my foot down. I should've... But I didn't. I still thought I could wield my own influence, teach them what I believed in.

"But that was a mistake. They were just kids, they... Azimio and his brother, they loved their daddy. They worshiped the ground he walked on. But even with all that, I was making _progress_, David. He actually told Father Mitchell that Haven Lake was a bad idea... Not enough staff, not enough demand... But he had his accident, and I... It was hard enough trying to fight the teachings of a saint. But then I had to fight the teachings of a martyr, and that was..." She sighed, a weariness coming over her that made her seem decades older in just moments. "I'm sorry I put you through this," she finally said, her voice firm once again. "We... we won't bother you again. Not until... Unless..." She shook her head. "We won't bother you again," she repeated.

Dave wanted to say something, _anything_, but by the time he could open his mouth, by the time he felt like he _had_ something to say, she was gone.

He was still sitting on that stool two and a half hours later, when his father came home. His dad hugged him, tightly, for long minutes, then quietly announced they were going to the steakhouse on 9th, "my treat." Dave picked his way through his porterhouse; he and his father made their silent trip home with full doggy bags.

That night, Dave dreamed. Az - eight year old Az, as young and naive as the day they first met - was tossing rocks at his window. "Come on, Dave! Let's go play!" And he, eight year old Dave, jumped out his window, tackling his best friend. They rolled around in the grass, punches and laughter flying, until Azimio finally broke free. "I'll race you to the swings! Last one's a rotten egg!" He leaped up and ran, Dave chasing after him, two boys without a care in the world.

**AN: A brief musing on 'fic writing (feel free to stop here if you don't want to read something kinda long-winded: **

**A couple of good writers who used to write 'fic for this show have left largely because they hate what the show did to their favorite characters, Dave and Kurt in particular. I completely understand this (even as I regret not seeing their work anymore), but personally, I sort of react the opposite way. I consider my work, when it turns out well, as sort of a middle finger to the writers who, say, abandoned Dave, showing how I, a non-professional in writing for TV, might have done things, in order to work out frustrations over canon. I guess I hate leaving potential unfulfilled, and I like making the best of what's available. Hope that makes sense. Bottom line: as long as I have good ideas, there's a good chance you'll see 'em!**


	7. Mom

**AN: Quick update, yes, but I've had the events of these last few chapters in mind for quite a while (including the last, but you know how that turned out). Trying to wrap this up so I can do more work on "Worlds Colliding" (which I've already mostly outlined) and "Lethe", so let's get started...**

Dave finally bit the bullet halfway into the session.

"My mom wants to see me this weekend."

Dr. Taylor immediately snapped to full attention. Not that Dave ever got the sense that her mind was wandering when he was speaking - it was just that now, he could actually _see _every iota of her mind and hearing trained on him.

"And?"

"And..." That was the question, wasn't it? "And... I don't know."

"We've talked about toxic influences before, David." Her voice was firm, but gentle.

"I know."

"Your relationship with your mother is as complicated as your relationship with Kurt - perhaps even more so."

"I _know_!" He hadn't meant to yell, but the volume was out of him before he could even acknowledge it, let alone tone it down. It was the kind of almost inevitable rush of pure emotion that led him to bully, to taunt, to kiss, and he didn't like feeling it again. Dr. Taylor, for her part, didn't seem at all affected by the outburst. "I know we've talked about her - hell, sometimes it feels like I talk about nothing but her," he continued in a normal volume. "I know she's the one who... taught me to hate myself. That she's having trouble accepting who I am." The words were almost rote to him; too bad he wasn't at all sure he was _feeling_ them.

"But she's still your mother, and you love her."

Dave nodded, biting his lip to keep the tears at bay for just a minute longer. "It'd... it'd be so much easier if she was one of those fucking Bible-thumpers who just hate fags. Then I could just say to hell with her and not have to _care_ that she... But she says she loves me and she's worried about me all the time and I know she's telling the truth... But at the same time I know she hates that I'm gay and she wants to 'fix' me and..." Dave hadn't realized until that moment how tightly he was gripping the armrests of his chair; his knuckles were pure white. He forced himself to relax, just enough to take the aching tension out of his hands. "She's my _mom_... I can't... Why...?"

"Family is very important," Dr. Taylor began softly. "There are bonds and obligations there that are tightly knit, for good reason. But they can't be everything. The most important person in David Karofsky's life has to be David Karofsky. You aren't under any obligation to expose yourself to harm just because someone is family. Their being related to you doesn't erase any of their flaws, or force you to change to conform to their beliefs or comfort zone. Even if they did give birth to you."

Dave laughed bitterly. "You know that's, like, what every teenager already thinks."

Dr. Taylor chuckled. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But I've found that a lot of the time, even the rebellious ones do care about what their parents think, even if they won't admit it to themselves. That's _why_ many of them rebel." She regarded Dave thoughtfully. "Generally, parents do what they think is right. But they're not always correct about what is right. They're... we're... human, after all, like everyone else."

"Yeah..." Dave rubbed at his left temple. "She said she wants what's best for me. God, didn't she ever think that if I could be straight, I would've already fucking _done_ it? That's why..." He trailed off.

"That's why...?" Dr. Taylor prompted.

"That's why..." Dave swallowed. "Why I denied it for so long. Why I was so scared. Why I beat up other people so I wouldn't have to think about my own problems." He shook his head. "God, I hate saying that. It's like I'm saying it's all her fault for being so fucked up..."

"She did have a significant role in it, though."

"You can fucking say that again. But it's... it's like I'm trying to dodge responsibility..."

Dr. Taylor smiled tightly. "David, if there's one thing you've been doing very little of since you've started seeing me, it's dodging responsibility. In fact, I think you may be going too far in the _other_ direction."

"What, overcompensating? Like in junior year? Just in a different way?" Dave chuckled.

"You said it, not me."

Dave laughed a little. "It's weird, though. How much my thinking's changed in just a couple of years..."

"Well, one part of it has to do with the developing teenage brain. Another is that, as I said, the mode of thinking that led you to your acts in the past isn't actually that different from the mode of thinking now that leads you to blame yourself for everything. It's just directed inward instead of outward." Dr. Taylor paused. "I don't think I have to tell you that neither is very healthy."

Dave didn't have an answer for that.

"And no, it doesn't make what you did okay. You're responsible for your own actions and reactions. But as I keep saying, understanding your feelings and where they come from is the first step in channeling them towards worthwhile purposes. And... your mother is certainly a key part in understanding them."

Dave looked up, startled. "Are you saying I should see her?"

"I'm saying that she's a part of you, a part of your past life, whether you or I want her to be or not. So I understand why you feel that you want to see her."

"I didn't say that."

"No, you didn't," Dr. Taylor agreed. A moment of silence followed. "But it's more than that, isn't it?"

Dave nodded. "I... I know I'm gay, but... I don't want to be."

"Being homosexual in today's society, especially in a small city like Lima, can be very difficult."

"Maybe it's part of the self-blame thing or something, but if I'd been straight... God, life would be so different. Maybe..." Dave swallowed. "Maybe my folks would still be together..."

"You can't blame yourself for that, David. As I said, it's not up to your mother to determine who you are. Only you can do that. And it's not up to you to be exactly and everything that she wants you to be. If she couldn't be a mother to her own son... That's her problem."

Dave detected a hint of a foreign (to him) emotion in Dr. Taylor's voice — disgust? Anger? Not that he was certain it was actually there, but her phrasing certainly spoke of _some_ feeling that she was trying very hard to suppress for the sake of professionalism. He always knew Dr. Taylor was in his corner (she sort of had to be, being his therapist), but the possible reminder sent a warm rush through him. He spoke, forming an idea that he felt a little silly bringing up, but now... Why not? She deserved his honesty. "I guess I'm kind of afraid that if I talk to Mom..."

"She'll convince you that you need fixing somehow?" Dr. Taylor asked quietly. Dave nodded again, silently. "I wouldn't recommend seeing her if you believe that she'll harm your sense of well-being..."

"But I kinda do, and I dunno why..."

"Because she's your mother, and you know she cares about you, albeit in a way that's harmful..."

"What the hell do I do?" Dave asked in a whisper.

"That's up to you. I would advise against it, but I know that you're very conflicted about her — much more so than with Kurt."

"Damned if I do, damned if I don't, huh?"

"Sometimes life is that way." Dr. Taylor paused in thought. Finally, she said, "I will tell you one thing, though, to keep in mind should you decide to see her: whatever problems she or society or anyone else have with your sexuality, it's _their_ problem, not yours. Of course your life would be different if you were straight, perhaps even better. But that's not who you are, and who you are happens to be pretty special all on its own."

Dave snorted. "Oh, yeah, I'm a precious snowflake with a great life. I hope they didn't teach you that shit in psychiatric school."

Dr. Taylor shrugged, apparently unoffended. "I know it sounds like an empty cliche, but I've seen and known a lot of people. No two are exactly alike, have exactly the same things to offer the world. Isn't that the definition of 'special'?" Dave didn't answer, so she continued. "The only reason anyone even thinks that homosexuality is undesirable is because of the reactions of others, of society. There's nothing inherently wrong with it, and so there's nothing inherently wrong with you."

"I know that. But..."

"But it's hard to internalize, I know. And we all live in the real world, where the opinions of others do matter to some extent. But at the same time, I've always firmly believed that — to use another cliche — being true to one's self is the best path to happiness. And I think you know that already. I also think you're far more accepting of your sexuality than you think. Valentine's Day?" Dave blushed just at the memory. "So I'm not concerned about you wanting to 'become straight' just from being around your mother." She paused again. "I am, however, concerned about how her feelings about your sexuality will affect you."

"Me too," Dave croaked.

"I can't tell you what to do. I know this is a difficult decision for you, and I can't imagine having to make that kind of choice in your place. I think it'd be better for you not to see her yet, but I also know you still care about her, and that there are a lot of unresolved feelings there — feelings you'll have to confront and deal with eventually."

"So you're saying...?"

"That it's up to you."

Dave snorted. "Great."

"I'm your therapist, not your puppeteer. Only you know what's best for you. And even if you make the 'wrong' decision... Well, I don't think it'll be the end of the world. You've overcome so much more in these past few months that I think you can handle it. If you can't... That's what I'm here for."

He nodded. "Thanks," he rasped.

Dr. Taylor nodded back. "Why don't we move our next session to Monday? Even if everything with your mother goes well, I'm sure there will be a lot to talk about."

_That_, Dave thought, _is the understatement of the fucking century._

Dave told himself that he was still thinking about it all the way home, but in reality, he'd already made up his mind, and he knew it. The only real question left was how to tell his dad. That was the other thing. Like Dr. Taylor, Dad insisted that this decision was his, but, again like Dr. Taylor, Dave knew what _he_ thought Dave should do. And the last thing Dave wanted to do was make his dad think he didn't appreciate the sacrifices he'd made for him — sacrifices like, say, a twenty five year plus marriage... A marriage to a woman that Dave was sure his father still loved, despite everything.

So during dinner that night, Dave told his father what he'd decided. "I can't ignore her forever, Dad. I... I hate leaving things this way. I know she's wrong about me and me being gay, but... She's still Mom, you know?"

His father, face drawn and worn, nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know." He took another bite of salad before continuing. "Make sure your cell phone is charged. The _second_ she makes you feel uncomfortable or down on yourself, I want you to call me, and I'll pick you up, wherever you are. Got that?"

Dave nodded, wondering for the millionth time how he'd never realized how fucking lucky he was that Paul Karofsky was his dad. "Got it."

Saturday dawned before Dave could really absorb the truth of what was happening. It seemed that one moment, it was one o'clock, and he was getting dressed (nice jeans, collared long-sleeved shirt, good shoes; it was as though he were going to a job interview or shaking hands with a foreign prime minister, not going out with his own mother), and the next, it was three, and the doorbell was ringing.

Dave's heart jumped. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering all the relaxation techniques that had been taught to him. When he finally felt like he got a little bit of a hold on himself, he opened the bedroom door. From down the hall, he could hear muffled voices. As he approached the stairs, the voices came into focus.

"... look good, Di."

"Thanks. You too."

Dave paused, leaning his head against the wall. When he was a kid, he used to kind of hate the obvious fondness his parents held for each other, the way they touched and teased and kissed (horrors!) in public. Now...

Paul and Diane Karofsky were officially just separated, not divorced. But Dave knew that was inevitable; once a man has to make a choice between his wife and his child, his relationships could never be the same again. Once that kind of rift opened, it could never be fully healed — never mind that his dad actually _initiated legal action_ against his mom. It was no surprise when she moved out; Dave tried to deny his tears that night, but like so many other times he'd tried to do so over the past few years, he failed.

"Just... don't hurt him, okay?" His dad's voice startled him from his memories; he wondered how long he'd been standing there.

"For God's sake, Paul, I'm not some kind of monster. He's still my baby boy."

"Oh?" That word, that one word, was shot so full of meaning and bitterness and sarcasm that Dave could almost smell the acidity. "Except for that one little part of him you want to—"

"Please, Paul, don't." His mom's voice was weary. "Let's not start this. Not now."

A sigh. "You're right. I just... I'm warning you, Di..."

"I know."

Girding himself, he stepped around the corner and started down the stairs. His parents' heads whipped around at his deliberately loud footfalls; the way his mother's face brightened seeing him almost made him wince. She approached quickly; by the time he descended the last step, her arms were around him. She was warm, and smelled of her favorite lilac perfume, matching his oldest memories. To his own surprise, he returned the hug tightly.

"Hello, David," she said. "You look so handsome."

"Hi, Mom." They separated; he noticed his father staring, a little uncomfortable. Well, like father, like son.

"I'll have him back before ten," his mom said to them both.

His dad nodded. "Have a good time." He watched silently as they went out the front door; Dave had an inkling he was still staring even as they got into her car and drove away.

They spent the first ten minutes on the road in near silence, only the hum of the air conditioner breaking the quiet. The first time his mother actually said anything was when they were stopped at a light. She pointed out the passenger side window. "Remember that park?" she said. "We used to bring you and Jack there all the time." She laughed quietly. "Jack would always try to push you as hard as he could on the swings, but it was never enough — it was always 'higher, higher!' with you."

Dave's lips quirked. "Yeah. I think I remember that." Before he could say anything else, the light changed, and the car lurched forward. Another few minutes of silence followed.

"How's your schoolwork going?" she finally asked.

"Uh, it's going okay, I guess. We're still not sure whether I can catch up enough by the end of the summer. We're looking at schools just in case." His mother's lip twitched, and Dave thought he knew why. "We." As in "him and his father, specifically excluding his mother." As far as his dad was concerned, Mom had given up any interest or right to meddle in his life. Dave couldn't disagree, but somehow that was harder to do when he was actually around her. "So, uh... What are we going to do?"

When she spoke, her voice was clear and firm — the voice of the mother of his childhood memories, the woman who gave birth to him, who loved him unconditionally. "Well, young man, the first thing we're going to do is get you some new shoes. I'll bet you still wear those ratty sneakers, and it's time you threw them out."

"But they're my lucky sneakers. How are the Bruins supposed to win without them?"

"The Bruins will have to make do. Then we can get you another couple of shirts, maybe a nice tie..."

Dave groaned and grumbled, but halfheartedly. They went to an outlet mall off Interstate 75 south of Lima. His mother always loved shopping, especially for others, so Dave tolerated her enthusiasm as she dragged him from store ("Oh, that color really brings out your eyes, David!") to store ("Try walking around in them. How do they feel?") to store ("You really should take ties more seriously. When you're out interviewing for jobs, you'll be glad you know how to tie them.").

By six o'clock, Dave had so many new clothes that he was sure even Kurt would've said, "okay, that's enough." He wasn't sure if his mom was trying to buy his love back, though he was pretty certain she was too smart for that kind of obvious ploy. As he slid into the passenger seat, his stomach rumbled; he heard light laughter from next to him.

"Shopping does work up quite an appetite," his mom chuckled. "Let's have dinner."

The restaurant his mother had chosen was further down I-75, called The Roadhouse. Despite its name, it looked like a clean and shiny, if generic, American restaurant. The waiter who sat them down was tall and redheaded, only a couple of years older than Dave, if that, his solid, muscled build obvious under his white shirt. He smiled a white smile, his clear green eyes crinkled, as he handed them their menus...

_Wait... Am I _checking him out_? _Dave cast a worried glance in his mother's direction; to his relief, she was busy examining the menu.

"Hi, welcome to The Roadhouse," the waiter said in a deep (sexy) voice. "I'm Pete, and I'll be your waiter tonight. Would either of you like a drink to start off with?"

"Just water," his mother replied.

"Coke," Dave managed to say through a dry throat.

"Coming right up." He hurried off; Dave watched him leave, watched his ass, before he even realized he was doing it.

"So what looks good?" His mother's question nearly made him jump, before he realized she was talking about the menu.

"Oh, uh... Not sure yet."

"If you like shrimp scampi, it's very good here." She stared at him for a long moment as she put down her menu; Dave's heart sank. _Oh, God, here it comes_. As it turned out, he was right, but only partially. "David... I've missed you so much." He wasn't sure how to answer that; fortunately, she didn't wait for him to respond. "I know you're an adult, but to me, you're still my little boy. I want... I want to be part of your life again."

An ember of anger stirred within him. "Seems to me you're the one who left it to begin with, Mom."

"I had to. Your father..."

"_Don't_," he snapped warningly. "Don't you dare blame Dad for any of this. You're the one who—"

"Here's your Coke," Pete announced, having teleported to their table from Kathmandu or something.

Dave choked off the rest of his words. "Uh, thanks." He looked up at Pete and smiled; the waiter smiled back... a smile that was a _little_... too genuine? Too warm? Too beyond what a waiter would normally give his table?

Nah. The tension with his mom was just making him see things, obviously. Pete put down a water glass in front of his mom and vanished again.

"I'm sorry," Mom said as soon as Pete was gone. "I know you don't want to talk about this..."

"There's nothing to talk about," Dave muttered. "If you can't accept me, you don't belong in my life. Dad laid it all out when you left." He spat out that last word.

"And you agree with him."

"Yeah."

"So you're happy being... You know..."

_Fuck, she can't even say the _word_._ Well, he knew perfectly well she _could_ say it — just never in the context of _him_, her son. "Yeah, I am." It was a bit of a lie, but hell if he was going to tell her that. Besides, he actually felt like it was getting a little less of a lie every day.

Then Pete was back. Both his eyes and hers immediately went back to their menus. "Have you decided yet? Our specials for tonight are listed on the insert..."

"Um, yes," Mom said, examining her menu as if it were the latest _Fifty Shades_ book (although the thought of his mother reading that kind of shit almost made him laugh). "I'll have the roasted chicken with almonds. And for my side... soup. The clam chowder."

"Great! And you, sir?" Pete turned towards Dave, all genuine interest. Plus maybe a little bit more than that? Dave still wasn't sure if he believed in that gaydar stuff, but if it did exist, his was pinging (which was actually kind of an interesting and neat thing, all things considered). Was it really his imagination? Or...?

Fuck it. Why not? Pete was hot, he was alone, and it would fucking upset his mom something fierce. That last thought sent such a rush of evil satisfaction through him that he was actually _doing_ it before his fear or his repression could stop him: he put on a wide, foxy (he hoped) smile, and, staring directly into Pete's eyes, said in his best low voice, "I don't know. What do you suggest?"

It was horrifyingly cheesy and lame. Plus, if he was wrong, it would make this entire meal even more awkward than it already was. The way his life usually went, that's exactly what _should_ have happened. So Dave was almost shocked when Pete's smile grew wider, and his eyes (so green, so bright) raked up and down him with tantalizing slowness. "Well..." he began, his voice a little choked, "you look like a meat and potatoes man to me. Am I right?"

"I think you've got me pegged." Not that he was talking about food, of course and _oh my fucking god what the hell am I doing? In front of my own mom_? But it was too late to stop himself... and he found that deep down, he really didn't _want_ to stop.

"Then I'd suggest the prime rib." Pete bent down and pointed it out on Dave's menu, a completely unnecessary gesture, but it brought the two closer; Dave felt Pete's tie brush against his cheek. "Freshly carved every day... It's _very_ good."

"Does sound good. I'll have that. Medium rare." He fixed Pete with a look and a grin as he handed over the menu. Their fingers brushed ever so slightly as the waiter took it from him; that bare contact sent a charge through Dave's spine.

"Soup or salad, sir?"

"Salad. Ranch."

"Wonderful." Dave had a feeling (hope?) he wasn't talking about his choice of dressings. "I'll have your sides out in a minute." _And you bent __over the next table_. At least, that's how Dave chose to interpret the look in Pete's eyes. He gave them a curt, professional nod as he walked away.

Full of warmth and smugness (and a sense of power — he was hit on all the time at Scandals, but by drunk guys, and he'd never taken the initiative before... holy fuck, if this is what it felt like, maybe he'd have to do it more often), Dave turned towards his mother... and his heart crashed into the bottom of his rib cage. He could've handled anger, or disgust... But not the devastated look on his mother's face — the disappointment, the _anguish_... "Mom..." he rasped.

"I know you did that just to hurt me," she said, her voice brittle. "But... I don't blame you. I... I failed you as a parent."

It was true, Dave thought, but the worst part was that he knew she didn't mean it in the way he was thinking it.

"I know you don't think I love you, David, but I do. I always will, no matter what. I just wish... I wish you could be with me in God's kingdom..."

The words reminded him much too much of his confrontation with Azimio; a cold chill went through his stomach, though whether born of hurt or sadness or anger he couldn't say. "If you loved me, you wouldn't still be going to St. Luke's," he replied bitterly.

"It's _because_ I love you that I'm still going to St. Luke's. I need... I need to understand, so I can help you if..."

"You really think Father Mitchell's teaching you anything but bullshit about me?"

"David! Language!"

"I'm eighteen, Mom; I don't think a little swearing is gonna kill me."

"Yes! Exactly! You're eighteen! You have your whole life ahead of you; you have so much more to learn and experience! You don't _have_ to be—"

"Yeah, well, I've slept with dudes, so I _do_ sorta think I have to."

His mother turned ghost white. Dave felt a complex mixture of triumph, guilt, anguish, and just a hint of self-loathing. "You haven't," she whispered.

And she was right. He felt nowhere _near_ ready emotionally to take that step. Hell, the only reason he flirted with Pete was to needle his mom. But she didn't know that, and she didn't have to know that. "Mom, please. I just... I just want you to understand..."

"I understand perfectly. Society... its influences... They can be very... damaging." Dave couldn't even try to feel any hope at these words; he knew perfectly well that she was talking about what "made" him gay. "I tried to shield you from them, I tried my best, but it just wasn't enough and I'm so sorry, David, I should've tried harder..."

"Yeah, well, you didn't," he replied flatly. His eyes looked for anything to latch onto besides his mother's face, her glistening eyes... He was startled to realize that his salad was sitting on the table in front of him. When had that happened? He grabbed his fork and immediately started eating, hoping the crunching of lettuce would drown out everything else in his ears.

The rest of the meal passed without conversation. Though he was sure that he wouldn't be hungry, Dave attacked his food with almost vicious gusto; perhaps it was to keep his mind off the woman sitting across the table from him. When Pete came back to the table to clear the entree dishes, it was as though the table's mood had infected him too; he simply asked the usual waiter questions — no significant looks, no out of the way touching.

"No... No dessert, thank you," his mother said softly. She wasn't even being nasty to the fag waiter who hit on her obviously straight son; she just looked saggy, defeated. "We'd just like the check now."

They waited in silence. She paid the bill in silence. As soon as the credit card was back in her purse, his mother got up. "I should get you home. Your father will be waiting up for you." It was only seven thirty; Dave had no idea what his mother originally had planned for the rest of the evening, but he supposed he'd never know now. He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or not.

She headed for the door; Dave was following her when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned; Pete was standing behind him, a contrite look on his face. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so—"

Dave shook his head, almost hard enough to rattle his brain. "No, it was my fault. I—" He paused, frowning. "Wait, how'd you know something happened?"

"The looks on your faces when I brought the salad," Pete admitted, his eyes downcast. "It... You two looked like me and my dad when I... And I couldn't help overhearing little bits and pieces..." He looked up again, his eyes meeting Dave's. "I know this is really forward, and I shouldn't even be talking to you right now, but... are you okay? Do you have anyone you can talk to?"

Dave thought about home, his dad, Dr. Taylor... Hell, even Kurt and Sebastian, in their own way... "Yeah. I do."

Pete smiled (and God, what a smile) in relief. "Cool." He dipped into his pocket and pulled out his wallet; he took out a small business card. "I don't know where you live, but a friend of mine runs a gay youth group in Columbus. They do other stuff in other cities too, and they have a website, so if you ever need to talk to someone..."

Dave took the card. "Thanks." He turned it over to find a handwritten phone number. "Yours?" he asked, eyebrow raised in amusement.

The waiter chuckled a little. "I'm a peer counselor with my friend's youth group. I usually give those out to kids who're on the edge and just need to know there's someone out there who cares." He paused. "But... if you ever want to call... you know, just to have someone to talk to... I don't mind."

Dave almost crumpled the card in his hand in his sudden tension; he willed himself to relax as he slipped it into his pocket. "I... will. Oh, and don't worry; my mom gave you, like, a huge tip."

Pete grinned. "Thanks. You... take care of yourself, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He left the restaurant, not daring to look back as he did. His mother was waiting beside the car; she'd obviously seen the whole thing. This time, though, he couldn't bear to feel any triumph at it.

"Ready?" she asked weakly. In her own way, she was actually trying... Not that it made it any easier. No, it only made it a thousand times worse.

"Yeah."

The entire drive back to Lima passed in silence. Once or twice, Dave leaned over to turn on the radio, mostly out of habit, but stopped himself each time. When they pulled up to his (no longer their) house, he could already see his dad on the porch; he stood as the car approached. Dave unbuckled himself, ready to throw himself out of the car, when his mother's voice stopped him.

"I'll tell Father Mitchell to stop coming over." Dave froze, not sure he actually heard what he heard; what were those things called — aural hallucinations? "I know he upsets you and your father, and I'll make sure he stops. I just... I wish..." She turned to him, tears in her eyes flowing freely now. "Just remember I'll always be your mother, and that I love you, and that I'll always be there for you if you ever need anything. I'm so sorry, David."

She was sorry, he knew — just not for the right things. "Yeah. Me too." He got out and went to his father without another word. Dad retrieved the shopping bags from his mother, then watched as she pulled away and drove off; Dave himself couldn't bear to, finding the chipped paint on the door frame fascinating instead. Then he felt his father's arms wrap around his; he returned the embrace, not even bothering to stifle the urge to weep.

They had sundaes — his dad chocolate, him strawberry with extra nuts. They watched a couple of movies on the couch, then played a couple of hands of cribbage, the way they used to when Dave was twelve. It didn't make anything actually better, not by a long shot, but it did make him feel better, if only for the contrast.

When he was with his mom, he felt like he wasn't comfortable in his own skin with the weight of her disapproval, her pity.

When he was with his dad... he was home.


	8. Dave

"The best sessions," Dr. Taylor once told Dave, "are ones in which I don't have to say a word. When I can just listen, get a feel for what's going on in my patient's head. When I can see them make connections and realizations in their mind, put things together on their own. I'm going to talk to you, David, and probably quite a bit, but what I want to do more of — much more of — is listen."

So it was that Dave just... talked. A lot of what he said struck him as rather useless shit: mostly the mundane details of his life, his slow push towards his future, whatever that was. But the rest of it... It was interesting, how much of a jumble life could get, and how it all seemed to straighten out, just a little, when he talked about it. It still felt a little awkward, though — it was as if he were presenting a summation of his life each week, to... defend it? Maybe not defend it, not to Dr. Taylor, at least... Maybe to himself?

"Uh, lessee, what else...? Oh! I ran into Kara Wesley. I met her at Thurston." Here Dave could almost feel Dr. Taylor's attentive gaze on him; it was as though he got physically warmer the instant the word "Thurston" escaped his lips. "It was... kinda awkward. But she said... She said that there were a lot of people there that didn't like what happened to me. She said that they were gonna organize a Gay-Straight Alliance, make sure nothing like... that... ever happened again. The administration's so scared of lawsuits and bad publicity, they're backing it every step of the way. She also said..." Dave couldn't help but chuckle. "That most of the football team hasn't gotten any for months. You know Nick? Marchand? The guy who...? Anyway. His girlfriend was Alina Coburn, most popular girl in school. I met her once, at one of the football team parties. She was actually kinda sweet; I never could figure out what she saw in Nick. Anyway, she dumped him not long after I... uh... left Thurston. He's been a single dateless loser ever since."

Dave chuckled again, this time with a note of bitterness. "I dunno, I guess I should be glad they got some karma back, but it feels kinda... I dunno, empty? I mean, it doesn't change what happened. Sure as hell doesn't change what they think of gay people... Like me..." Those last couple of words really were unnecessary, he knew. But he felt like if he said them, or words like them, often enough, maybe his throat would stop closing up on his own, his heart would stop racing, and his palms would stop sweating every time he even _thought_ of saying them.

It was starting to work. A little. He thought.

"It also made me wonder... if karma's caught up with _me_ yet. I mean, maybe what happened... Maybe I deserved it. I mean, so I could see what it was really like, what I did to Kurt, how I made him feel... I know it's fucked up, but maybe it had to take something of, like, epic proportions to give me some fucking perspective... I know you don't like me saying it, but that's how I feel. I'm supposed to be honest with how I feel, right?" He looked up; Dr. Taylor simply nodded in reply.

"But maybe... Maybe no matter what happens to me... if what happened makes the teachers at Thurston care about that kind of shit. At least _something_ good will have come out of that whole mess. If something like that had been there for Kurt, when I was..." He trailed off, taking a moment to regain his mental bearings "... was... bullying him... It would've been better for both of us. He wouldn't be cleaning Slushies off himself and his friends every day, and maybe I could've gotten help sooner."

Dave paused, his brain still processing the words it wanted to form. "Sometimes... I wonder how Kurt is doing. I still get mail from Sebastian once in a while — we don't talk about anything heavy, but that's okay. I've thought about asking him, but how would he know? Maybe I could ask Santana...? If she'd even want to talk to me. (Hey, she got a cheerleading scholarship... Good for her, y'know?) I dunno... Like you said, maybe it's not the best thing to talk to him — or even think about him — but... I guess, no matter how I feel about him... I just hope he's okay, you know? That I didn't... That life is giving him a fucking break for once. Even if he is still with that douchebag Blaine... I hope he's happy."

His eyes flickered towards his feet; he didn't like talking about Kurt for too long. Too many unresolved issues, he supposed. He only wondered what would happen when he does try to resolve them. "Jack's visiting again," he finally said after a brief silence. "We've been talking a lot more online, since the last time. Skype, stuff like that. He... I forgot how cool he could be when he isn't being a complete dickwad."

He thought for a moment, the memory shaping itself. "I... kind of overheard something I shouldn't have." Dr. Taylor raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. He wondered if she was afraid that interrupting would derail this roll he was on. "We were having a barbecue on Sunday. I'd gone inside to get a Coke, but I heard Dad and Jack talking in the kitchen." Dave's fingers rubbed against his knuckles. "I dunno why I just stopped and listened like that. Maybe because I heard my name..."

_"... really think Dave wants to?"_

_"I think he does, Jack, once the situation with his schooling and all that settle down. I think he just isn't sure how to bring it up. He might be afraid you'll say no."  
_

_"Why the hell would I say no? It'd be fun to have him around. Stacy is dying to meet him, you know — she thinks he's 'adorable.'"  
_

_A chuckle. "I'd certainly feel better knowing you were around to help him out. And to..." A pause. "You'd watch out for him, wouldn't you?"  
_

_"Fuck, Dad, do you even need to ask? I..." A choked sound. "When you called, I... I was so fucking scared, I almost fell apart. If Stacy hadn't made phone calls and dragged me to the airport, I don't know if I..." A sniffle (sniffle? Since when did Jack sniffle, except if he had a cold?). "Dad, I love that kid so fucking much, I don't want to screw up again. What if I...?"  
_

_"You're not far from a kid yourself, son. You can't be completely responsible for another person — and you aren't. David would probably be the first person to tell you that. Look, nobody's perfect... I've figured that out the hard way. But you're doing things for the right reasons, and... Well, even if you do screw up, he knows... He knows how you feel and what you're doing. What matters is that you try, and keep trying. That's what family is for, you know."  
_

_"Yeah. I guess... I guess you're right." A gulp. "You sure you don't mind, Dad? Because once Dave's in California, I don't know that he'll ever want to leave."  
_

_"If that's what makes him happy... Hell, maybe I'll have to join you boys sometime. Get a duplex, so we can—"  
_

_"Uh, no, Dad, that's, uh... okay." Laughter, the kind that Dave missed hearing. "Shit, Dave must be wondering what the hell we're doing..."  
_

_That was the signal. Dave immediately barreled for the patio door and yanked it open. As the footsteps from the other room approached, Dave loudly banged the patio door and took an aggressive step forward, as if he were just entering. Jack emerged from the kitchen, bottle of Coke in hand; he had the same easygoing grin on his face, one that didn't falter as he caught sight of Dave. _I am _so_ fucking clever,_ Dave thought smugly._

_"Hey! Bitch!" he called out to his older brother. "That better not be the last Coke, or I'm gonna shove your face into the barbecue!"  
_

_"Keep your panties on, Little Orphan Annie, there's plenty left."  
_

_"What the fuck did I tell you about you and your homophobia? You better fucking shape up, or I'm gonna tell Stacy, and then she'll _never _marry your sorry ass!"_

_"Yeah? You do that, then I'll tell Dad about _Pete_! Then he'll _never_ leave you the fuck al—"_

"Ah, Pete," Dr. Taylor finally interrupted; it wasn't something she did often — usually it was to catch an important thought or a moment before it fled. "How are things going with him?"_  
_

Dave rumbled and blushed and desperately tried to think of a way to change the subject. He found one — one that was all too significant. "I said the barbecue was on Sunday, right? It got me thinking... Mom and Az were probably at St. Luke's at that very second. Praying for my immortal soul or something." Dr. Taylor nodded once more. "I just... I mean, I want to say 'fuck 'em', but it's... It's harder than I thought. Especially now that I know they kinda sorta care, you know? It... leaves a little hope, and I don't know if I should hold onto it or not." He looked up at Dr. Taylor, hoping for an answer. When he didn't get one, he continued. "Right now, I don't want to ever see them again... But it makes me feel rotten every time I think that. So where does that leave me?"

"Somewhere that you and I will need to perhaps discuss more in the future," Dr. Taylor replied with a gentle smile. "Now, about Pete..."

"Yeah, yeah," Dave sighed. "Since you aren't gonna let it go either... It's going okay. We've been talking a lot. Mostly texting, but we've done a Skype call or two. He's cool; we talk about football, video games, stupid shit. He keeps me up to date on the activities his friend's group runs. They haven't done anything near Lima yet, but maybe next month they'll get something together in Dayton. That wouldn't be too bad.

"Hey, you know he came out to his folks when he was _fifteen_? Kind of makes me feel like an emotional retard, you know?"

"Everyone develops at their own pace," Dr. Taylor replied. "He doesn't have your life, and you don't have his. His rate of growth is meaningless when it comes to you."

"I suppose. But like I said, it's kind of cool... I mean, one of the reasons I kept going back to Scandals is because... It's like, Kurt and Blaine were the only other two gay guys I knew for a long time, right? But being there... Shit, there are _all_ kinds of dudes there. It was sort of like a reminder that they're... I mean, _we're_ not all like Kurt and Blaine. I guess it's sort of the same with Pete. I'm learning about stereotypes I didn't even know existed. Hell, it turns out _I'm_ sort of one of them! So talking with him is part of me learning what it means to be gay, y'know?" He paused thoughtfully. "One thing I think I'm starting to learn is that I haven't changed. I mean, I did, but only 'cause I didn't want to be gay. Only gay me _was_ me, and straight me wasn't... Does that make any sense?

"Uh, anyway... Pete and I were thinking of meeting up one weekend, go bowling or something. He lives in Sidney, so it isn't that far if we meet halfway. It's cool — it's not like we don't hang out online anyway. We'll probably just end up shooting the shit most of the time, though, but that's cool too. I guess it's the peer counseling he does; he's really patient (and God knows anyone who deals with me has to be patient, right?) and a really good listener. Hell, I almost believe he's really interested in what I have to say. Not that he's boring or anything — he's really smart, you know? He's just a couple of years older than me, but he's been to Europe and..."

Dave paused; what the hell was he doing, going on about the guy like this? Was any of this really important? And what was up with that smirk on Dr. Taylor's face? Better to move on. "Anyway, after Jack's threat, I decided to just suck it up and tell Dad about him. He pretty much said what you said before. 'This is a good thing. You need more gay friends. The more you're around them, the more you'll realize how normal you really are.'" Dr. Taylor murmured agreement. "I just wish he'd stopped there..."

_"So... is he cute?"_

_"Dad! God...!"_

_"What? Just because I'm straight doesn't mean I can't appreciate male beauty."  
_

_"La la la I'm not hearing this..."  
_

_"Oh, come on, David, I'm just saying that you should be more open minded towards possible relationships. Sometimes I think you believe that you deserve to be alone, and I don't think that's true."  
_

_Dave wanted to protest that just because he and Pete were gay, didn't mean they were interested in each other — but then he remembered that he'd told his father about the restaurant, so that pretty much blew up that little argument. Instead he said, "Dad, I am so totally NOT ready for dating right now..."  
_

_"But you're getting there. Every day you're getting there. And you have to admit, it'd be nice to not have to wait once you are, wouldn't it?"  
_

Dave paused in thought, much as he had at that point in the original conversation. "He's kinda right, but... Pete's a cool guy. I don't wanna ruin our friendship by drooling over him or anything... Even though I _totally_ do when he's not looking. But after Kurt... I'm not sure I'm ever going to make the first move, like, ever again." He reddened, rubbing the back of his neck.

The clock on Dr. Taylor's desk began chiming softly. "We've gone a little overtime today," the therapist remarked. "It's all right; my next appointment isn't for another half hour anyway. But we should wrap up." She put down her pen and regarded Dave thoughtfully. "You're getting out of your old comfort zones, exploring new things, new people. I'd say that's very significant progress, especially with what you want to deal with."

Dave shrugged. "I guess."

"I'm the expert here, and I say it is," she replied with an ironic grin. "Speaking of new things, I'd like to try something." She held out a small spiral-bound notebook; the young man took it with some perplexity. "Every day, I'd like you to try to sum up the current life of David Karofsky in fifteen words or less. Take any angle you want: what's been happening, how you feel... Whatever seems significant at the time. Think of it as sort of an ongoing life journal: one that's simple enough that you'll write in it consistently, that'll enable you to compare each day and get a sense of your progress and where your life is going. The word limit is to help you get to the essence of what you're doing and feeling. If you invest enough thought into it, and the results are interesting enough, we might make it part of your ongoing therapy. What do you think?"

"You're the doctor. I'll give it a shot."

"Great. We'll go over what you write next time." She rose, offering an outstretched hand. Dave shook, careful not to squeeze too hard (a habit he'd gotten into during his more macho days, although he somehow got a sense that Dr. Taylor could take what he could dish out). "See you next week."

On the way home, Dave decided to stop by the park, because what the hell, it was a beautiful day. There was an ice cream truck in the parking lot, doling out sweets to a bunch of Little Leaguers, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd patronized one of those things. Was it that one summer when he was ten, and he and Az got Rocket Pops, which they did as much dueling with as eating? Either way, Creamsicle today, because, again, what the hell.

Dave sat on a bench, a dozen tiny sunbeams shooting at the back of his head, filtered through the canopy of a large tree, Creamsicle already dripping between his fingers, notebook carefully balanced on his knee. After taking a couple of healthy bites from his ice cream, he flipped the notebook open, carefully placing a pen on top.

Hmmm... Summary of Dave Karofsky's life in fifteen words or less. He was of the Twitter generation, so this should be easy, right?

But if there was one thing Dave learned from therapy (and he'd learned a lot, frankly), it was that life usually wasn't so simple, for anyone.

He bit his melting Creamsicle, and decided to write his first word.

_Sticky._

Wait, what the fuck was he doing? Santana and Jack could each think of a hundred different jokes to make about that without breaking a sweat. He started to scratch it out, but hesitated. Would Dr. Taylor want him to? On the other hand, what kind of possible relevance did it have? He only wrote it because his hand was, well, sticky. Shaking his head, and slurping the last of the Creamsicle from the stick, he crossed the word out.

Okay, serious now. Dave Karofsky's life in fifteen words or less.

_Complicated._

That was a given. That was obvious. But might as well write it down anyway, right?

_Confusing._

Another given, or he wouldn't need therapy, would he?

_Full._

Of what? He wasn't sure sometimes. A lot of things. But it certainly wasn't empty... Not like it was before.

Realizing that put a little grin on Dave's face as he wrote again.

_Gay._

He paused for a moment at that word. Without context, it almost felt like an insult. But it wasn't; it was simple truth. Dave Karofsky, gay teenager. Not that that was all he was (though he knew that for certain people, it was all they could see or think about), but it was such a basic part of his life that he couldn't really ignore it, could he?

He knew what happened when he tried.

_Fragile_.

But wasn't everyone's? Then again, he had... particular experience in realizing just how fragile it was. The worst part was that even after he kicked away the chair, even as the belt tightened around his neck... He still didn't realize it, not then. He knew from his reading afterward that many suicide survivors regained their desire to live just as death stared them in the face.

He didn't. All he felt as the lights started to go out was relief — relief that he would finally get away from the pain and the worry and the constant, _constant_ gnawing fear...

It made him a little ashamed, realizing he'd sunk so low. But then, as Dr. Taylor often said, it also reminded him of how far he'd come.

_Hot._

Okay, that felt a little obvious and stupid. But that was what came to mind. Even with the heat, he could tell summer was ending — the days were inching shorter, the temperature steadily dropping. It'd be fall soon; he still wasn't sure whether he'd have the credits necessary to graduate. And then what? California? Dare he hope?

_Uncertain._

He always thought Blaine was probably one of those freaks who had everything in his life planned out. Not that he knew one way or the other; it was just a _feeling_ with the dude. But at the same time, he could see how having a life plan could be kind of comforting — the certainty of knowing where you were going.

_I worry about the future sometimes._

That was a whole bunch of words, and it seemed sort of redundant with his previous word, but it really did sum up his life at this discrete point in time. Everything felt so... in flux, misshapen, like he was stumbling through fog. Would his next step get him out of the moors, or would he just fall into quicksand? What the fuck direction was he running anyway? Did he even have any conception? How could he prepare for his future when he had no idea what it was, what it could be, what it was _possible_ to be with everything that had already happened to him?

He kicked at the shadow at his feet. It put to mind the "shadow jumping" game he and Jack used to play when they were kids.

Jack and Dad were at home right now, waiting for him.

A robot chattered from his pocket. Dave pulled out his phone to find a text from Pete. He read it, laughing aloud once he finished. He tapped out a response with a huge grin, watched the send progress bar fill, then put the phone away. He leaned back on the bench, tossing the Creamsicle stick towards a nearby garbage can. It clattered inside, nothing but net.

A breeze picked up, sending a welcome chill across his sweat-streaked forehead. The sky was clear and blue; a couple of kids at the distant playground laughed. If Dave had to freeze a moment in time... Well, he could do worse than this.

And he still had two words left. Dave considered for a moment, then knew what they had to be.

_Worth living._

And it really was.

**AN: My original plan was for the Karofskys to invite the Taylors to a barbecue (the same as the one depicted here) as a thank you, and for various interactions and conversations to happen. But research showed that would probably be too much of a boundary breaker for a therapist. Looking back on it, the scenery and "format" shift also would've been jarring, compared to the previous chapters. I think I like this better, even if it was more difficult to write. So I'm not sure how this last chapter turned out; hopefully well.  
**

**Thanks for keeping up with this (and my other stuff, for those of you who do). Hope y'all liked the ride, and that you check out whatever I put out in the future (like I said, as long as I have the good ideas...). See ya then...!**


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